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The Love Letters 



OF 



Mary Wollstonecraft 

TO GILBERT IMLAY 

With a Prefatory Memoir 
By Roger Ingpen 



ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS 



Philadelphia 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

London : HUTCHINSON & CO. 
1908 






PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN 



/d^fr,.^ 



'-%.P 



MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S 
LETTERS 



EDITED BY ROGER INQPEN 



LEIGH HUNT'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Illustrated 
Edition. 2 Vols. A, Constable & Co. 

ONE THOUSAND POEMS FOR CHILDREN: 
A Collection of Verse Old and New. 
Hutchinson & Co. 

FORSTER'S LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Abridged. (Standard Biographies.) 
Hutchinson & Co. 

BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

Abridged. (Standard Biographies.) 
Hutchinson & Co. 

BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

Complete. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. Pitman. 





^ ;^>^>-'<i--<^-t-<*/^~" 



PREFACE 



Of Mary Wollstonecraft's ancestors little is 
known, except that they were of Irish descent. 
Her father, Edward John Wollstonecraf t, was the 
son of a prosperous Spitalfields manufacturer of 
Irish birth, from whom he inherited the sum of ten 
thousand pounds. He married towards the middle 
of the eighteenth century Elizabeth Dixon, the 
daughter of a gentleman in good position, of 
Ballyshannon, by whom he had six children : 
Edward, Mary, Everina, Eliza, James, and Charles, 
Mary, the eldest daughter and second child, was 
born on April 27, 1759, the birth year of 
Burns and Schiller, and the last year of George 
II. 's reign. She passed her childhood, until she 
was five years old, in the neighbourhood of 
Epping Forest, but it is doubtful whether she 
was born there or at Hoxton. Mr. Wollstone- 
craf t followed no profession in particular, although 
from time to time he dabbled in a variety of pur- 
suits when seized with a desire to make money. 
He is described as of idle, dissipated habits, and 
possessed of an ungovernable temper and a rest- 
less spirit that urged him to perpetual changes of 
residence. From Hoxton, where he squandered 
most of his fortune, he wandered to Essex, and 



vi PREFACE 

then, among other places, in 1768 to Beverley, 
in Yorkshire. Later he took up farming at 
Laugharne in Pembrokeshire, but he at length grew 
tired of this experiment and returned once more 
to London. As his fortunes declined, his brutality 
and selfishness increased, and Mary was frequently 
compelled to defend her mother from his acts 
of personal violence, sometimes by thrusting her- 
seK bodily between him and his victim. Mrs. 
Wollstonecraft herself was far from being an 
amiable woman ; a petty tyrant and a stern but 
incompetent ruler of her household, she treated 
Mary as the scapegoat of the family. Mary's 
early years therefore were far from being happy ; 
what little schooling she had was spasmodic, 
owing to her father's migratory habits. 

In her sixteenth year, when the Wollstonecrafts 
were once more in London, Mary formed a friend- 
ship with Fanny Blood, a young girl about her 
own age, which was destined to be one of the 
happiest events of her life. There was a strong 
bond of sympathy between the two friends, for 
Fanny contrived by her work as an artist to be 
the chief support of her family, as her father, like 
Mr. Wollstonecraft, was a lazy, drunken fellow. 

Mary's new friend was an intellectual and 
cultured girl. She loved music, sang agreeably, 
was well-read too, for her age, and wrote 
interesting letters. It was by comparing Fanny 
Bloods letters with her own, that Mary first 
recognised how defective her education had been. 
She applied herself therefore to the task of 



PKEFACE vii 

increasing her slender stock of knowledge— hoping 
ultimately to become a governess. At lengthy at 
the age of nineteen, Mary went to Bath as 
companion to a tiresome and exacting old lady, 
a Mrs, Dawson, the widow of a wealthy London 
tradesman. In spite of many difficulties, she 
managed to retain her situation for some two 
years, leaving it only to attend the deathbed of 
her mother. 

Mrs. Wollstonecraft's death (in 1*780) was 
followed by the break-up of the home. Mary 
went to live temporarily with the Bloods at 
Walham Green, and assisted Mrs. Blood, who 
took in needle- work ; Everina became for a short 
time housekeeper to her brother Edward, a 
solicitor ; and Eliza married a Mr. Bishop. 

Mr. Kegan Paul has pointed out that " all the 
Wollstonecraft sisters were enthusiastic, excitable, 
and hasty tempered, apt to exaggerate trifles, 
sensitive to magnify inattention into slights, 
and slights into studied insults. All had bad 
health of a kind which is especially trying to the 
nerves, and Eliza had in excess the family tempera- 
ment and constitution." Mrs. Bishop's married 
life from the first was one of utter misery ; they 
were an ill-matched pair, and her peculiar 
temperament evidently exasperated her husband's 
worst nature. His outbursts of fury and the 
scenes of violence of daily occurrence, for which 
he was responsible, were afterwards described 
with realistic fidelity by Mary in her novel, " The 
Wrongs of Women." It was plainly impossible 



Yiii PREFACE 



for Mrs. Bishop to continue to live with such a 
man, and when, in 1782, she became dangerously 
ill, Mary, with her characteristic good nature, went 
to nurse her, and soon after assisted her in her 
flight from her husband. 

In the following year (1783) Mary set up a 
school at Islington with Fanny Blood, and she was 
thus in a position to offer a home to her sisters, 
Mrs. Bishop and Everina. The school was after- 
wards moved to Newington Green, where Mary 
soon had an establishment with some twenty 
day scholars. After a time, emboldened by her 
success, she took a larger house ; but un- 
fortunately the number of her pupils did not 
increase in proportion to her obligations, which 
were now heavier than she could well meet. 

While Mary was living at Newington Green, 
she was introduced to Dr. Johnson, who, Godwin 
says, treated her with particular kindness and 
attention, and with whom she had a long conver- 
sation. He desired her to repeat her visit, but 
she was prevented from seeing him again by his 
last illness and death. 

In the meantime Fanny Blood had impaired 
her health by overwork, and signs of consumption 
were already evident. A Mr. Hugh Skeys, who 
was engaged in business at Lisbon, though some- 
what of a weak lover, had long admired Fanny, 
and wanted to marry her. It was thought that 
the climate of Portugal might help to restore her 
health, and she consented, perhaps more on that 
account than on any other, to become his wife. 



n 



PREFACE ix 

She left England in February 1785, but her health 
continued to grow worse. Mary's anxiety for 
her friend's welfare was such that, on hearing 
of her grave condition, she at once went off to 
Lisbon, and arrived after a stormy passage, only 
in time to comfort Fanny in her dying moments. 
Mary was almost broken-hearted at the loss of 
her friend, and she made her stay in Lisbon as 
short as possible, remaining only as long as was 
necessary for Mrs. Skeys's funeral. 

She returned to England to find that the 
school had greatly suffered by neglect during her 
absence. In a letter to Mrs. Skeys's brother, 
George Blood, she says : " The loss of Fanny was 
sufficient to have thrown a cloud over my brightest 
days : what effect then must it have, when I am 
bereft of every other comfort ? I have too many 
debts, the rent is so enormous, and where to go, 
without money or friends, who can point out ? " 

She thus realised that to continue her school 
was useless. But her experience as a school- 
mistress was to bear fruit in the future. She 
had observed some of the defects of the edu- 
cational methods of her time, and her earliest 
published effort was a pamphlet entitled, 
" Thoughts on the Education of Daughters," 
(1787). For this essay she received ten guineas, a 
sum that she gave to the parents of her friend, 
Mr. and Mrs. Blood, who were desirous of going 
over to Ireland. 

She soon went to Ireland herself, for in the 
October of 1787 she became governess to the 



PREFACE 



1 



daughters of Lord Kingsborough at Michaels- 
town, with a salary of forty pounds a year. Lady 
Kingsborough in Mary's opinion was "a shrewd 
clever woman, a great talker. . . . She rouges, and 
in short is a fine lady without fancy or sensibility. 
I am almost tormented to death by dogs. . . ." Lady 
Kingsborough was rather selfish and uncultured, 
and her chief object was the pursuit of pleasure. 
She pampered her dogs, much to the disgust of 
Mary Wollstonecraft, and neglected her children. 
What views she had on education were narrow. 
She had been accustomed to submission from her 
governess, but she learnt before long that Mary 
was not of a tractable disposition. The children, 
at first unruly and defiant, "literally speaking, 
wild Irish, unformed and not very pleasing," 
soon gave Mary their confidence, and before long 
their affection. One of her pupils, Margaret King, 
afterwards Lady Mountcashel, always retained the 
warmest regard for Mary Wollstonecraft. Lady 
Mountcashel continued her acquaintance with 
William Godwin after Mary's death, and later came 
across Shelley and his wife in Italy. Mary won 
from the children the affection that they withheld 
from their mother, consequently, in the autumn of 
1788, when she had been Avith Lady Kingsborough 
for about a year, she received her dismissal. She 
had completed by this time the novel to which 
she gave the name of " Mary," which is a tribute 
to the memory of her friend Fanny Blood. 



PEEFACE xi 

II 

And now, in her thirtieth, year, Mary Wollstone- 
craft had concluded her career as a governess,, and 
was resolved henceforth to devote herself to 
literature. Her chances of success were slender 
indeed, for she had written nothing to encourage 
her for such a venture. It was her fortune, how- 
ever, to make the acquaintance of Joseph Johnson, 
the humanitarian publisher and bookseller of 
St. Paul's Churchyard, who issued the works of 
Priestley, Home Tooke, Gilbert Wakefield, and 
other men of advanced thought, and she met at 
his table many of the authors for whom he 
published, and such eminent men of the day as 
William Blake, Fuseli, and Tom Paine. Mr. 
Johnson, who afterwards proved one of her best 
friends, encouraged her in her literary plans. He 
was the publisher of her "Thoughts on the 
Education of Daughters," and had recognised in 
that little book so much promise, that when she 
sought his advice, he at once offered to assist her 
with employment. 

Mary therefore settled at Michaelmas 1788 in a 
house in George Street, Blackfriars. She had 
brought to London the manuscript of her novel 
" Mary," and she set to work on a book for children 
entitled " Original Stories from Real Life." Both 
of these books appeared before the year was out, 
the latter with quaint plates by William Blake. 
Mary also occupied some of her time with transla- 
tions from the French, German, and even Dutch^ 



xii PREFACE 

one of which was an abridged edition of Saltz- 
mann's "Elements of Morality," for which Blake 
also supplied the illustrations. Besides this work, 
Johnson engaged Mary as his literary adviser 
or "reader," and secured her services in con- 
nexion with The Analytical Review, a periodi- 
cal that he had recently founded. 

While she was at George Street she also 
wrote her "Vindication of the Rights of Man" 
in a letter to Edmund Burke. Her chief 
satisfaction in keeping up this house was to 
have a home where her brothers and sisters could 
always come when out of employment. She was 
never weary of assisting them either with money, 
or by exerting her influence to find them situa- 
tions. One of her first acts when she settled 
in London was to send Everina WoUstonecraft to 
Paris to improve her French accent. Mr. John- 
son, who wrote a short account of Mary's life in 
London at this time, says she often spent her 
afternoons and evenings at his house, and 
used to seek his advice, or unburden her troubles 
to him. Among the many duties she imposed 
on herself was the charge of her father's affairs, 
which must indeed have been a profitless under- 
taking. 

The most important of Mary WoUstonecraft's 
labours while she was living at Blackfriars was 
the writing of the book that is chiefly associ- 
ated with her name, "A Vindication of the 
Rights [of Woman." This volume — now much 
better known by its title than its contents — ■. 



PREFACE xiii 

was dedicated to the astute M. Talleyrand de 
Perigord, late Bishop of Autun, apparently on 
account of his authorship of a pamphlet on 
National Education. It is unnecessary to attempt 
an analysis of this strikingly original but most 
unequal book — modern reprints of the work have 
appeared under the editorship both of Mrs. 
Eawcett and Mrs. Pennell. It is sufficient to say 
that it is really a plea for a more enlightened 
system of education, affecting not only her own 
sex, but also humanity in its widest sense. Many 
of her suggestions have long since been put to 
practical use, such as that of a system of free 
national education, with equal advantages for boys 
and girls. The book contains too much theory 
and is therefore to a great extent obsolete. Mary 
Wollstonecraft protests against the custom that 
recognises woman as the plaything of man ; she 
pleads rather for a friendly footing of equality 
between the sexes, besides claiming a new order 
of things for women, in terms which are unusually 
frank. Such a book could not fail to create a 
sensation, and jit speedily made her notorious, not 
only in this country, but on the Continent, where 
it was translated into French. It was of course 
the outcome of the French Revolution ; the whole 
work is permeated with the ideas and ideals of 
that movement, but whereas the French patriots 
demanded rights for men, she made the same 
demands also for women. 

It is evident that the great historical drama 
then being enacted in France had made a deep 



xiv PEEFACE 

impression on Mary's mind — its influence is 
stamped on every page of her book, and it was 
lier desire to visit France with Mr. Johnson and 
Fuseli. Her friends were, however, unable to 
accompany her, so she went alone in the December 
of 1792, chiefly with the object of perfecting her 
French. Godwin states, though apparently in 
error, that Fuseli was the cause of her going to 
France, the acquaintance with the painter having 
grown into something warmer than mere friend- 
ship. Fuseli, however, had a wife and was happily 
married, so Mary "prudently resolved to retire 
into another country, far remote from the object 
who had unintentionally excited the tender passion 
in her breast." 

She certainly arrived in Paris at a dramatic 
moment ; she wrote on December 24 to her 
sister Everina : " The day after to-morrow I 
expect to see the King at the bar, and the con- 
sequences that will follow I am almost afraid to 
anticipate." On the day in question, the 26th, 
Louis XVI. appeared in the Hall of the Convention 
to plead his cause through his advocate, Desize, 
and on the same day she wrote that letter to 
Mr. Johnson which has so often been quoted : 
"About nine o'clock this morning," she says, 
" the King passed by my window, moving silently 
along (excepting now and then a few strokes on 
the drum, which rendered the stillness more 
awful) through empty streets, surrounded by the 
national guards, who, clustering round the carriage, 
seemed to deserve their name. The inhabitants 



PREFACE 



XV 



flocked to their windows, but the casements were 
all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did I see 
anything like an insulting gesture. For the first 
time since I entered France I bowed to the 
majesty of the people, and respected the propriety 
of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my own 
feelings. I can scarcely tell you Avhy, but an 
association of ideas made the tears flow insensibly 
from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting, with 
more dignity than I expected from his character, 
in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where 
so many of his race had triumphed. My fancy 
instantly brought Louis XIV. before me, entering 
the capital with all his pomp, after one of his 
victories so flattering to his pride, only to see 
the sunshine of prosperity overshadowed by the 
sublime gloom of misery. ..." 

Mary first went to stay at the house of Madame 
Filiettaz, the daughter of Madame Bregantz, in 
whose school at Putney both Mrs. Bishop and 
Everina Wollstonecraft had been teachers. Mary 
was now something of a celebrity — " Authorship," 
she writes, " is a heavy weight for female shoulders, 
especially in the sunshine of prosperity" — and 
she carried with her letters of introduction to 
several influential people in Paris. She renewed 
her acquaintance vdth Tom Paine, became intimate 
with Helen Maria Williams (who is said to have 
once lived with Imlay), and visited, among others, 
the house of Mr. Thomas Christie. It was her 
intention to go to Switzerland, but there was 
some trouble about her passport, so she settled 



xvi PREFACE 

at Neuilly, then a village three miles from Paris. 
"Her habitation here," says Godwin, "was a 
solitary hotise in the midst of a garden, with no 
other habitant than herself and the gardener, an , 
old man who performed for her many offices of 
a domestic, and would sometimes contend for the 
honour of making her bed. The gardener had 
a great veneration for his guest, and would set 
before her, when alone, some grapes of a par- 
ticularly fine sort, which she could not without 
the greatest difficulty obtain of him when she had 
any person with her as a visitor. Here it was 
that she conceived, and for the most part executed, 
her historical and moral view of the French 
Revolution, into which she incorporated most of 
the observations she had collected for her letters, 
and which was written with more sobriety and 
cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been 
commenced. In the evening she was accustomed 
to refresh 'herself by a walk in a neighbouring 
wood, from which her host in vain endeavoured 
to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible 
robberies and murders that had been committed 
there." 

It is probable that in March 1793 Mary 
WoUstonecraft first saw Gilbert Imlay. The 
meeting occurred at Mr. Christie's house, and 
her immediate impression was one of dislike, so 
that on subsequent occasions she avoided him. 
However, her regard for him rapidly changed 
into ; friendship, and later into love. Gilbert 
Imlay was boi-n in New Jersey about 1755. 




From an engraving by Ridley, dated 179C, after a painting 
by John Opie, R.A. 

MAEY WOLLSTONECEAFT. 
This picture was purchased for the National Gallery at the sale 
of the late Mr. William Russell. The reason for supposing that 
it represents Mary Wollstone craft rests solely on testimony of the 
engraving in the Monthly Mirror (published during her life- 
time), from which this reproduction was made. Mrs. Merritt 
made an etching of the picture for Mr. Kegan Paul's edition of 
the " Letters to Imlay." 



To face p. xvi 



PEEFACE xvii 

He served as a captain in the American army 
during the Revolutionary war, and was the 
author of "A Topographical Description of the 
Western Territory of North America," 1792, and 
a novel entitled "The Emigrants," 1793. In 
the latter work, as an American, he proposes to 
" place a mirror to the view of Englishmen, that 
they may behold the decay of these features that 
were once so lovely," and further " to prevent the 
sacrilege which the present practice of matrimonial 
engagements necessarily produce." It is not known 
whether these views regarding marriage preceded, 
or were the result of, his connexion with Mary 
WoUstonecraft. In 1793 he was engaged in 
business, probably in the timber trade with 
Sweden and Norway. 

In deciding to devote herself to Imlay, Mary 
sought no advice and took no one into her con- 
fidence. She was evidently deeply in love with 
him, and felt that their mutual confidence shared 
by no one else gave a sacredness to their union. 
Godwin, who is our chief authority on the Imlay 
episode, states that *' the origin of the connexion 
was about the middle of April 1793, and it was 
carried on in a private manner for about three 
months." Imlay had no property whatever, and 
Mary had objected to marry him, because she 
would not burden him with her own debts, or 
" involve him in certain family embarrassments," 
for which she believed herself responsible. She 
looked upon her connexion with Imlay, however, 
*'as of the most inviolable nature." Then the 

5 



xviii PEEFACE 

French Government passed a decree that all 
British subjects resident in France should go to 
prison until a general declaration of peace. It 
therefore became expedient, not that a marriage 
should take place, for that would necessitate 
Mary declaring her nationality, but that she 
should take the name of Imlay, "which," says 
Godwin, "from the nature of their connexion 
(formed on her part at least, with no capricious or 
fickle design), she conceived herself entitled to 
do, and obtain a certificate from the American 
Ambassador, as the wife of a native of that 
country. Their engagement being thus avowed, 
they thought proper to reside under the same roof, 
and for that purpose removed to Paris." 

In a letter from Mary Wollstonecraft to her 
sister Everina, dated from Havre, March 10, 1794, 
she describes the climate of France as "uncom- 
monly fine," and praises the common people for 
their manners ; but she is also saddened by the 
scenes that she had witnessed and adds that 
" death and misery, in every shape of terror, haunt, 
this devoted country. ... If any of the many 
letters I have written have come to your hands or 
Eliza's, you know that I am safe, through the 
protection of an American, a most worthy man 
who joins to uncommon tenderness of heart and 
quickness of feeling, a soundness of understanding, 
and reasonableness of temper rarely to be met 
with. Having been brought up in the interior 
parts of America, he is a most natural, unaffected 
creature." 



PREFACE xix 

Mary has expressed in the " Rights of Woman " 
her ideal of the relations between man and wife ; 
she now looked forward to such a life of domestic 
happiness as she had cherished for some time. 
She had known much unhappiness in the past. 
Godwin says : "She brought in the present instance, 
a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the 
attachment of a chosen friend. Let it not, how- 
ever, be imagined, that she brought a heart, 
querulous, and ruined in its taste for pleasure. 
No ; her whole character seemed to change with a 
change of fortune. Her sorrows, the depression 
of her spirits, were forgotten, and she assumed all 
the simplicity and the vivacity of a youthful 
mind. She was playful, full of confidence, kind- 
ness, and sympathy. Her eyes assumed new 
lustre, and her cheeks new colour and smoothness. 
Her voice became cheerful ; her temper over- 
flowing with universal kindness ; and that smile 
of bewitching tenderness from day to day illumin- 
ated her countenance, which all who knew her will 
so well recollect, and which won, both heart and 
soul, the affections of almost every one that 
beheld it." She had now met the man to whom 
she earnestly believed she could surrender herself 
with entire devotion. Naturally of an affectionate 
nature, for the first time in her life, with her 
impulsive Irish spirit, as Godwin says, " she gave 
way to all the sensibilities of her nature." 

The affair was nevertheless doomed to failure 
from the first. Mary had taken her step without 
much forethought. She attributed to Imlay 



XX PREFACE 

*' uncommon tenderness of heart," but she did not 
detect his instability of character. He certainly 
fascinated her, as he fascinated other women, both 
before and after his attachment to Mary. He 
was not the man to be satisfied with one woman 
as his life-companion. A typical American, he was 
deeply immersed in business, but his affairs may 
not have claimed as much of his time as he 
represented. In the September after he set up 
house with Mary, that is in '93, the year of the 
Terror, he left her in Paris while he went to 
Havre, formerly known as Havre de Grace, but 
then altered to Havre Marat. It is awful to think 
what must have been the life of this lonely 
stranger in Paris at such a time. Yet her letters 
to Imlay contain hardly a reference to the events 
of the Revolution. 

Mary, tired of waiting for Imlay's return to 
Paris, and sickened with the "growing cruelties 
of Robespierre," joined him at Havre in January 
1794, and on May 14 she gave birth to a girl, 
whom she named Frances in memory of Fanny 
Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every 
evidence throughout her letters to Imlay of how 
tenderly she loved the little one. In a letter to 
Everina, dated from Paris on September 20, she 
speaks thus of little Fanny : 

" I want you to see my little girl, who is more 
like a boy. She is ready to fly away with spirits, 
and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. 
She does not promise to be a beauty, but appears 
wonderfully intelligent, and though I am sure she 



PREFACE xxi 

has her father's quick temper and feelings, her 
good humour runs away with all the credit of my 
good nursing." 

In September Imlay left Havre for London, and 
now that the Terror had subsided Mary returned 
to Paris. This separation really meant the end 
of their camaraderie. They were to meet again, 
but never on the old footing. The journey 
proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the 
carriage in which she travelled breaking down 
four times between Havre and Paris. Imlay 
promised to come to Paris in the course of two 
months, and she expected him till the end of the 
year with cheerfulness. With the press of business 
and other distractions his feelings for her and the 
child had cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed. 
For three months longer Imlay put her off with 
unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense 
came to an end in April, when she went to London 
at his request. Her gravest forebodings proved 
too true. Imlay was already living with a young 
actress belonging to a company of strolling 
players; and it was evident, though at first he 
protested to the contrary, that Mary was only a 
second consideration in his life. He provided 
her, however, with a furnished house, and she 
did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation : 
but when she reahsed that hope was useless, in 
her despair she resolved to take her life. Whether 
she actually attempted suicide, or whether Imlay 
learnt of her intention in time to prevent her, is 
not actually known. Imlay was at this time 



xxii PREFACE 

engaged in trade with Norway, and requiring a 
trustworthy representative to transact some con- 
fidential business, it was thought that the journey 
would restore Mary's health and spirits. She 
therefore consented to take the voyage, and set 
out early in April 1795, with a document drawn up 
by Imlay appointing her as his representative, 
and describing her as " Mary Imlay, my best 
friend, and wife," and concluding : " Thus, confiding 
in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly 
beloved friend and companion ; I submit the 
management of these affairs entirely and im- 
plicitly to her discretion : Remaining most sin- 
cerely and affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay." 

The letters describing her travels, excluding 
any personal matters, were issued in 1796, as 
*' Letters from Sweden and Norway," one of her 
most readable books. The -portions eliminated 
from these letters were printed by Godwin in 
his wife's posthumous works, and are given in 
the present volume. She returned to England 
early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay had 
promised to meet her on the homeward journey, 
possibly at Hamburg, and to take her to Switzer- 
land, but she hastened to London to find her 
suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a 
lodging, but entirely neglected her for some woman 
with whom he was living. On first making the 
discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony 
of mind, she sought Imlay at the house he had 
furnished for his new companion. The conference 
resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to 



PREFACE xxiii 

drown herself. She first Went to Battersea 
Bridge, but found too many people there; and 
therefore walked on to Putney. It was night and 
raining when she arrived there, and after wander- 
ing up and down the bridge for half-an-hour 
until her clothing was thoroughly drenched she 
threw herseK into the river. She was, however, 
rescued from the water and, although unconscious, 
her life was saved. 

Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other 
occasions ; probably her last sight of him was in 
the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when " he 
alighted from his horse, and walked with her 
some time ; and the re-encounter passed," she 
assured Godwin, " without producing in her any 
oppressive emotion." Mary refused to accept any 
pecuniary assistance for herseK from Imlay, but 
he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, 
the interest to be devoted to the maintenance 
of their child ; neither principal nor interest, 
however, was ever paid. What ultimately became 
of Imlay is not known. 

Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. 
Her old friend and publisher, Mr. Johnson, came 
to her aid, and she resolved to resume her literary 
work for the support of herself and her child. 
She was once more seen in literary society. 
Among the people whom she met at this time 
was William Godwin. Three years her senior, he 
was one of the most advanced republicans of the 
time, the author of "Political Justice" and the 
novel " Caleb Williams." They had met before, 



xxiv PREFACE 

for the first time in November 1791, but she 
displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip 
silenced the naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom 
he was anxious to hear talk. Although they met 
occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that 
they became friendly. There must have been some- 
thing about Godwin that made him extremely 
attractive to his friends, for he numbered among 
them some of the most charming women of the 
day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb, Hazlitt, 
and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the 
members of his family he was of a kind, even 
affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he ap- 
pears to the worst advantage — a kind of early 
Pecksniflf — in his later correspondence and relations 
with Shelley, and it is by this correspondence at 
the present day that he is best known. The fine 
side-face portrait of Godwin by Northcote, in 
the National Portrait Gallery, preserves for us, 
all the beauty of his intellectual brow and 
eyes. Another portrait of Godwin, full-face, 
with a long sad nose, by Pickersgill, once to be 
seen in the National Portrait Gallery, is not 
so pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey 
gives an unflattering portrait of Godwin at the 
time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the 
full-face portrait of the philosopher — "he has 
large noble eyes, and a nose — oh, most abominable 
nose ! Language is not vituperations enough to 
describe the effect of its downward elongation." 

Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as 
*' friendship melting into love." They agreed to 



PREFACE XXV 

live together, but Godwin took rooms about 
twenty doors from their home in the Polygon, 
Somers Town, as it was one of his theories that 
living together under the same roof is destruc- 
tive of family happiness. Godwin went to his 
rooms as soon as he rose in the morning, generally 
without taking breakfast with Mary, and he 
sometimes slept at his lodgings. They rarely 
met again until dinner-time, unless to take a 
walk together. During the day this extra- 
ordinary couple would communicate with each 
other by means of short letters or notes. 
Mr. Kegan Paul prints some of these; such as 
Godwin's : 

" I will have the honour to dine with you. You 
ask me whether I can get you four orders. I do 
not know, but I do not think the thing impos- 
sible. How do you do ? " 

,And Mary's: "Fanny is delighted with the 
thought of dining with you. But I wish you to 
eat your meat first, and let her come up with the 
pudding. I shall probably knock at your door on 
my way to Opie's ; but should I not find you, let 
me request you not to be too late this evening. Do 
not give Fanny butter with her pudding." This 
note is dated April 20, 1797, and probably fixes 
the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to 
Opie. 

On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived happily 
together, with very occasional clouds, mainly due 
to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed 
bachelor habits. 



xxvi PKEFACE 

Although both were opposed to matrimony on 
principle, they were married at Old St. Pancras 
Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church 
being witness. Godwin does not mention the event 
in his carefully registered diary. The reason for 
the marriage was that Mary was about to become 
a mother, and it was for the sake of the child that 
they deemed it prudent to go through the cere- 
mony. But it was not made public at oncBj 
chiefly for fear that Johnson should cease to help 
Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Reveley, two of 
Godwin's admirers, were so upset at the announce- 
ment of his marriage that they shed tears. 

An interesting description of Mary at this time 
is given in Southey's letter to Cottle, quoted 
above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, " Of all 
the lions or literati I have seen here, Mary Im- 
lay's countenance is the best, infinitely the best : 
the only fault in it is an expression somewhat 
similar to what the prints of Home Tooke display 
— an expression indicating superiority; not 
haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but 
still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, 
and although the lid of one of them is affected 
by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning 
I ever saw." 

Mary busied herself with literary work ; other- 
wise her short married life was uneventful. 
Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil 
Montagu to Staffordshire from June 3 to 20, and 
the correspondence between husband and wife 
during this time, which Mr. Paul prints, is most 




From a photo by Emery, Walker after the picture by Opie (probably 
painted in April, 1797) in the National Portrait Gallery. 

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. 

This picture passed from Godwin's hands on his death to his 
grandson, Sir Percy Florence Shelley. It was afterwards be- 
queathed to the nation by his widow, Lady Shelley. It was 
engraved by Heath (Jan. 1, 1798) for Godwin's memoir of his 
wife. An engraving of it also appeared in the Lady's Magazine, 
from which the frontispiece to this book was made, and a 
mezzotint by W. T. Annis was published in 1S02. Mrs. Merritt 
also made an etching of the picture for Mr. Paul's edition of the 
" Letters to Imlay." 



To face p. xxvi 



PEEFACE xxvii 

delightful reading, and shows how entirely in 
sympathy they were. 

On August 30, Mary's child was born, not the 
William so much desired by them both but 
Mary, who afterwards became Mrs. Shelley. AU 
seemed well with the mother until September 3, 
when alarming symptoms appeared. The best 
medical advice was obtained, but after a week's 
illness, on Sunday morning, the 10th, at twenty 
minutes to eight, she sank and died. During her 
illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was 
administered, which gave Mary some relief, when 
she exclaimed, " Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven." 
But, as Mr. Kegan Paul says, "even at that 
moment Godwin declined to be entrapped into 
the admission that heaven existed," and his in- 
stant reply was: "You mean, my dear, that your 
physical sensations are somewhat easier." Mary 
Godwin, however, did not share her husband's 
religious doubts. Her sufferings had been great, 
but her death was a peaceful one. 

Godwin's grief was very deep, as the letters 
that he wrote immediately after her death, and 
his tribute to her memory in the " Memoirs " 
testify. Mary Godwin was buried in Old St. 
Pancras churchyard on September 15, in the 
presence of most of her friends. Godwin lived 
till 1836, when he was laid beside her. Many years 
afterwards, at the same graveside, Shelley is 
said to have plighted his troth to Mary Godwin's 
daughter. In 1851, when the Metropolitan and 
Midland Bailways were constructed at St. 



xxviii PREFACE 

Pancras, the graveyard was destroyed, but the 
bodies of Mary and William Godwin were 
removed by their grandson, Sir Percy Shelley, 
to Bournemouth, where they now rest with his 
remains, and those of his mother, Mrs. Shelley. 

In the year following Mary's death (1798) God- 
win edited his wife's " Posthumous Works," in four 
volumes, in which appeared the letters to Imlay, 
and her incomplete novel "The Wrongs of Woman." 
His tribute to Mary Godwin's memory was also 
published in 1798, under the title of " Memoirs of 
the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of 
Woman!^ Godwin's novel, " St. Leon " came out in 
1799 ; his tragedy " Antonio " was produced only 
to fail, in 1800, and in 1801, he was wooed and won 
by Mrs. Clairmont, a widow. The Godwin house- 
hold was a somewhat mixed one, consisting, as it 
did, of Fanny Imlay, Mary Godwin, Mrs. God- 
win's two children, Charles and Claire Clairmont, 
and also of William, the only child born of her 
marriage with Godwin. In 1812 Shelley began 
a correspondence with Godwin, which ultimately 
led to Mary Godwin's elopement with the poet. 
Poor Fanny Imlay, or Godwin, as she was called 
after her mother's death, died at the age of nine- 
teen by her own hand, in October 1816. Her life 
had been far from happy in this strange household 
She had grown to love Shelley, but his choice had 
fallen on her half-sister, so she bravely kept her 
secret to herself. One day she suddenly left home 
and travelled to Swansea, where she was found 
lying dead the morning after her arrival, in the inn 



PREFACE xxix 

where she had taken a room, " her long brown 
hair about her face ; a bottle of laudanum upon 
the table, and a note which ran thus : ' I have 
long determined that the best thing I could do 
was to put an end to the existence of a being 
whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has 
only been a series of pain to those persons who 
have hurt their health in endeavouring to promote 
her weKare.' She had with her the little Genevan 
watch, a gift of travel from Mary and Shelley : 
and in her purse were a few shillings." ^ 

Shelley, afterwards recalling his last interview 
with Fanny in London, wrote this stanza : 

" Her voice did quiver as we parted ; 

Yet knew I not that heart was broken 
From whence it came, and I departed 

Heeding not the words then spoken. 
Misery — O Misery, 
This world is all too wide for thee ! " 



III 

The vicissitudes to which Mary WoUstonecraft 
was so largely a prey during her lifetime seem 
to have pursued her after death. In her own 
day recognised as a public character, reviled by 
most of her contemporaries in terms not less 
ungentle than Horace Walpole's epithets, "a 
hyena in petticoats " or " a philosophising serpent," 
posterity has proved hardly more lenient to her. 

» Dowden's " Life of Shelley," 



XXX 



PKEFACE 



But the vigorous work of this " female patriot " has 
saved her name from that descent into obscurity 
which is the reward of many men and women 
more talented than Mary WoUstonecraf t. Keputed 
chiefly as an unsexed being, who had written " A 
Vindication of the Rights of Women," she was 
not the first woman to hold views on the emanci- 
pation of her sex ; but her chief crimes were in 
expressing them for the instruction of the public, 
and having the courage to live up to her opinions. 
Whether right or wrong, she paid the penalty of 
violating custom by discussing forbidden subjects. 
It is true that she detected many social evils, 
and suggested some excellent remedies for their 
amelioration, but the time was not ripe for her 
book, and she suffered the usual fate of the 
pioneer. Moreover, her memoir by William God- 
win, beautiful as it is in many respects, exercised 
a distinctly harmful influence in regard to her 
memory. The very fact that she became the wife 
of so notorious a man, was sufficient reason to 
condemn her in the eyes of her countrymen. 

For two generations after her death practically 
no attempt was made to remove the stigma from 
her name. But at length the late Mr. Kegan 
Paul, a man of wide and generous sympathies, 
made a serious effort to obtain something like 
justice for Mary Wollstonecraft. In his book 
on William Godwin, published in 1876, the true 
story of Mary's life was told for the first time. 
It was somewhat of a revelation, for it recorded 
the history of an unhappy but brave and loyal 



PREFACE xxxi 

woman, whose faults proceeded from excessive 
sensibility and from a heart that was over- 
susceptible. Mary Wollstonecraft was an idealist 
in a very matter-of-fact age, and her outlook on 
life, like that of most idealists, was strongly 
affected by her imagination. She saw people and 
events in brilliant lights or sombre shadows — it 
was a power akin to enthusiasm which enabled 
her to produce some of her best writing, but it 
also prevented her from seeing the defects of her 
worst work. Since Mr. Kegan Paul's memoir, 
Mary Wollstonecraft has been viewed from an 
entirely different aspect, and many there are who 
have come under the spell of her fascinating 
personality. It is not, however, her message alone 
that now interests us, but the woman herself, her 
desires, her aspirations, her. struggles, and her 
love. Pathetic and lonely, she stands out in 
the faint mists of the past, a woman that will 
continue to evoke sympathy when her books are 
no longer read. But it is safe to predict that the 
pages reprinted in this volume are not destined 
to share the fate of the rest of her work. Other 
writers have been unhappy and have known the 
pains of unrequited love, but Mary Wollstone- 
craft addressed these letters with a breaking heart 
to the man whom she adored, the most passionate 
love letters in our literature. It is true that she 
was a votary of Rousseau, and that she had 
probably assimilated from the study of his work 
not only many of his views, but something of his 
style ; it does not, however, appear that she had 



xxxii TEEFACE 

any motive in writing these letters other than 
to plead her cause with Imlay. She was far too 
sensitive to have intended them for publication, 
and it was only by a mere chance that they 
were rescued from oblivion. 

December 1907. 



PORTRAITS 



Maey Wollstonecraft (Photogravure) Frontispiece 
Mary Wollstonecraft, by Opie. From an 

engraving by Ridley . , . facing p. xvi 
Mary Wollstonecraft, from the picture by 

Opie ....•• facing p, xxvi 



LETTERS 
TO GILBERT IMLAY 

LETTER I 

Two o'clock \Faris, June 1793]. 

My dear love, after making my 
arrangements for our snug dinner to- 
day, I have been taken by storm, 
and obliged to promise to dine, at an 

early hour, with the Miss s, the 

only day they intend to pass here. 
I shall however leave the key in the 
door, and hope to find you at my 
fee-side when I return, about eight 
o'clock. Will you not wait for poor 
Joan ? — whom you will find better, 
and till then think very affectionately 
of her. 

Yours, truly, 

Mary. 

1 am sitting down to dinner; so 
do not send an answer. 

1 



2 LETTERS 



LETTER II 

Past Twelve o'clock, Monday Night 
[Paris, Aug. 1793]. 

1 OBEY an emotion of my heart, 
which made me think of wishing 
thee, my love, good-night ! before 
I go to rest, with more tenderness 
than I can to-morrow, when writing a 

hasty Une or two under Colonel 's 

eye. You can scarcely imagine with 
what pleasure I anticipate the day, 
when we are to begin almost to live 
together; and you would smile to 
hear how many plans of employment 
I have in my head, now that I am 
confident my heart has found peace 
in your bosom. — Cherish me with 
that dignified tenderness, which I 
have only found in you ; and your 
own dear girl will try to keep under 
a quickness of feeling, that has some- 
times given you pain. — Yes, I will 
be good, that I may deserve to be 
happy ; and whilst you love me, I 



TO IMLAY 3 

cannot again fall into the miserable 
state, which rendered life a burthen 
almost too heavy to be borne. 

But, good-night ! — God bless you I. 
Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss — 
yet I would rather give you the kiss^ 
into the bargain, glowing with grati- 
tude to Heaven, and affection to you. 
I like the word affection, because 
it signifies something habitual ; and 
we are soon to meet, to try whether 
we have mind enough to keep our 
hearts warm. 

Mary. 

I will be at the barrier a little after 
ten o'clock to-morrow.^ — Yours — 

LETTER III 

Wednesday Morning [Paris ^ Aug. 1793], 

You have often called me, dear 
girl, but you would now say good, 
did you know how very attentive 

* The child is in a subsequent letter called the 
" barrier girl^" probably from a supposition that 
she owed her existence to this interview. — W. G, 



4 LETTERS 

I have been to the ever since I 

came to Paris. I am not however 
going to trouble you with the account, 
because I Hke to see your eyes praise 
me ; and Milton insinuates, that, 
during such recitals, there are inter- 
ruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, 
when the honey that drops from the 
lips is not merely words. 

Yet, I shall not (let me tell you 
before these people enter, to force 
me to huddle away my letter) be 
content with only a kiss of duty — 
you must be glad to see me — because 
you are glad — or I will make love 
to the shade of Mirabeau, to whom 
my heart continually turned, whilst 

I was talking with Madame , 

forcibly telling me, that it will ever 
have sufficient warmth to love, 
whether I will or not, sentiment, 
though I so highly respect prin- 
ciple. 

Not that 1 think Mirabeau utterly 
devoid of principles — Far from it — 
and, if I had not begun to form a 



TO IMLAY 5 

new theory respecting men, I should, 
in the vanity of my heart, have 
imagined that / could have made 

something of his it was composed 

of such materials — Hush ! here they 
come — and love flies away in the 
twinkling of an eye, leaving a little 
brush of his wing on my pale cheeks. 

I hope to see Dr. this morn- 
ing ; I am going to Mr. 's to 

meet him. , and some others, 

are invited to dine with us to-day ; 
and to-morrow I am to spend the 
day with . 

I shall probably not be able to 

return to to-morrow ; but it is 

no matter, because I must take a 
carriage, I have so many books, that I 
immediately want, to take with me. — 
On Friday then I shall expect you 
to dine with me — and, if you come a 
little before dinner, it is so long since 
I have seen you, you will not be 
scolded by yours affectionately, 

Mary. 



LETTERS 
LETTER IV 1 

Friday Morning [Paris ^ Sept. 1793]. 

A MAN, whom a letter from Mr. 
previously announced, called 



here yesterday for the payment of a 
draft ; and, as he seemed disappointed 
at not finding you at home, I sent 

him to Mr. . I have since seen 

him, and he tells me that he has 
settled the business. 

So much for business ! — May 1 
venture to talk a little longer about 
less w^eighty affairs ? — How are you ? 
— I have been following you all along 
the road this comfortless weather ; 
for, when I am absent from those I 
love, my imagination is as lively, as 
if my senses had never been gratified 
by their presence — I was going to 
say caresses — and why should I not ? 
1 have found out that I have more 

^ This and the thirteen following letters appear 
to have been written during a separation of several 
months ; the date, Paris. — W. G. 



TO IMLAY 7 

mind than you, in one respect ; be- 
cause I can, without any violent 
effort of reason, find food for love 
in the same object, much longer 
than you can. — The way to my 
senses is through my heart ; but, 
forgive me ! I think there is some- 
times a shorter cut to yours. 

With ninety-nine men out of a 
hundred, a very sufficient dash of 
folly is necessary to render a woman 
piquante, a soft word for desirable ; 
and, beyond these casual ebullitions 
of sympathy, few look for enjoyment 
by fostering a passion in their hearts. 
One reason, in short, why I wish my 
whole sex to become wiser, is, that 
the foolish ones may not, by their 
pretty folly, rob those whose sensi- 
bility keeps down their vanity, of 
the few roses that affijrd them some 
solace in the thorny road of life. 

I do not know how 1 fell into 
these reflections, excepting one 
thought produced it — that these 
continual separations were necessary 



8 LETTERS 

to warm your affection. — Of late, 
we are always separating. — Crack ! — 
crack ! — and away you go. — This 
joke wears the sallow cast of thought ; 
for, though I began to write cheer- 
fully, some melancholy tears have 
found their way into my eyes, that 
linger there, whilst a glow of tender- 
ness at my heart whispers that you 
are one of the best creatures in the 
world. — Pardon then the vagaries of 
a mind, that has been almost " crazed 
by care," as well as " crossed in hap- 
less love," and bear with me a little 
longer ! — When we are settled in 
the country together, more duties 
will open before me, and my heart, 
which now, trembling into peace, 
is agitated by every emotion that 
awakens the remembrance of old 
griefs, will learn to rest on yours, 
with that dignity your character, not 
to talk of my own, demands. 

Take care of yourself — and write 
soon to your own girl (you may add 
dear, if you please) who sincerely 



TO IMLAY 9 

loves you, and will try to convince 
you of it, by becoming happier. 

Maky. 

LETTER V 

Sunday Night [Paris, 1793]. 

I HAVE just received your letter, 
and feel as if I could not go to bed 
tranquilly without saying a few words 
in reply^ — merely to tell you, that 
my mind is serene and my heart 
affectionate. 

Ever since you last saw me in- 
clined to faint, I have felt some 
gentle twitches, which make me 
begin to think, that I am nourishing 
a creature who will soon be sensible 
of my care. — This thought has not 
only produced an overflowing of 
tenderness to you, but made me 
very attentive to calm my mind and 
take exercise, lest I should destroy 
an object, in whom we are to have a 
mutual interest, you know. Yester- 
day — do not smile ! — finding that I 



10 LETTERS 

had hurt myself by Hfting precipitately 
a large log of wood, I sat down in an 
agony, till I felt those said twitches 
again. 

Are you very busy ? 



So you may reckon on its being 
finished soon, though not before you 
come home, unless you are detained 
longer than I now allow myself to 
believe you will. — 

Be that as it may, write to me, 
my best love, and bid me be patient 
— kindly — and the expressions of 
kindness will again beguile the time, 
as sweetly as they have done to- 
night. — Tell me also over and over 
again, that your happiness (and you 
deserve to be happy !) is closely 
connected with mine, and I will try 
to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes 
of former discontent, that have too 
often clouded the sunshine, which 
you have endeavoured to diffuse 
through my mind. God bless you ! 



TO IMLAY 11 

Take care of yourself, and remember 
with tenderness your affectionate 

Mary. 

I am going to rest very happy, and 
you have made me so. — This is the 
kindest good-night I can utter. 



LETTER VI 

Friday Motiimg [Paris, Dec. 1793]. 

I AM glad to find that other people 
can be unreasonable, as well as myself 
— for be it known to thee, that I 
answered thy first letter, the very 
night it reached me (Sunday), though 
thou couldst not receive it before 
Wednesday, because it was not sent 
off till the next day. — There is a full, 
true, and particular account. — 

Yet I am not angry with thee, my 
love, for I think that it is a proof of 
stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and- 
water affection, which comes to the 
same thing, when the temper is 
governed by a square and compass. 



12 LETTERS 

— There is nothing picturesque in 
this straight-lined equaHty, and the 
passions always give grace to the 
actions. 

Recollection now makes my heart 
bound to thee ; but, it is not to thy 
money-getting face, though I cannot 
be seriously displeased with the exer- 
tion which increases my esteem, or 
rather is what I should have expected 
from thy character. — No ; I have thy 
honest countenance before me — Pop 
— relaxed by tenderness ; a little — 
little wounded by my whims ; and 
thy eyes glistening with sympathy. — 
Thy lips then feel softer than soft — 
and I rest my cheek on thine, for- 
getting all the world. — I have not 
left the hue of love out of the picture 
— the rosy glow ; and fancy has 
spread it over my own cheeks, I 
believe, for I feel them burning, 
whilst a delicious tear trembles in my 
eye, that would be all your own, if a 
grateful emotion directed to the 
Father of nature, who has made me 



TO IMLAY 13 

thus alive to happiness, did not 
give more warmth to the sentiment 
it divides — I must pause a moment. 

Need I tell you that I am tranquil 
after writing thus ? — I do not know 
why, but I have more confidence 
in your affection, when absent, than 
present ; nay, I think that you must 
love me, for, in the sincerity of my 
heart let me say it, I beUeve I 
deserve your tenderness, because I am 
true, and have a degree of sensibility 
that you can see and relish. 

Yours sincerely, 

Mary. 



LETTER VII. 

Sunday Morning [Paris ^ Dec. 29, 1793]. 

You seem to have taken up your 
abode at Havre. Pray sir ! when do 
you think of coming home ? or, to 
write very considerately, when will 
business permit you ? I shall expect 
(as the country people say in 



14 LETTERS 

England) that you will make a 
power of money to indemnify me 
for your absence. 

Well ! but, my love, to the old story 
— am I to see you this week, or this 
month? — I do not know what you 
are about — for, as you did not tell 

me, I would not ask Mr. , who 

is generally pretty communicative. 

I long to see Mrs. ; not to 

hear from you, so do not give your- 
self airs, but to get a letter from 

Mr. . And I am half angry 

with you for not informing me 
whether she had brought one with 
her or not. — On this score I will 
cork up some of the kind things that 
were ready to drop from my pen, 
which has never been dipt in gall when 
addressing you; or, will only suffer 
an exclamation — " The creature ! " or 
a kind look to escape me, when I pass 
the slippers — which I could not 
remove from my falle door, though 



TO IMLAY J5 

they are not the handsomest of their i 

kind. I 

Be not too anxious to get money I — j 

for nothing worth having is to be 
purchased, God bless you. 

Yours affectionately, 

Mary. I 



LETTER VIII 

Monday Night [Paris, Dec. 30, 1793]. 

My best love, your letter to-night 
was particularly grateful to my heart, 
depressed by the letters I received 

by , for he brought me several, 

and the parcel of books directed to 

Mr. was for me. Mr. '& 

letter was long and very affectionate ; 
but the account he gives me of his 
own affairs, though he obviously 
makes the best of them, has vexed 
me. 

A melancholy letter from my 

sister has also harrassed my 

mind — that from my brother would 



16 LETTERS 

have given me sincere pleasure ; but 
for 

ji* v^ 5i* 2]*. alt 

9fr TPf ^ 'pr 7K 

There is a spirit of independence in 
his letter, that will please you ; and 
you shall see it, when we are once 
more over the fire together. — I think 
that you would hail him as a brother, 
with one of your tender looks, when 
your heart not only gives a lustre to 
your eye, but a dance of playfulness, 
that he would meet with a glow 
half made up of bashfulness, and a 

desire to please the where shall I 

find a word to express the relationship 
which subsists between us ? — Shall I 
ask the little twitcher ? — But I have 
dropt half the sentence that was to 
tell you how much he would be 
inclined to love the man loved by 
his sister. I have been fancying my- 
self sitting between you, ever since I 
began to write, and my heart has 
leaped at the thought ! You see how 
I chat to you. 

I did not receive your letter till I 



TO IMLAY 17 

came home ; and I did not expect 
it, for the post came in much later 
than usual. It was a cordial to me — 
and I wanted one. 

Mr. tells me that he has 

written again and again. — Love him 
a little ! — It would be a kind of 
separation, if you did not love those 
I love. 

There was so much considerate 
tenderness in your epistle to-night, 
that, if it has not made you dearer 
to me, it has made me forcibly feel 
how very dear you are to me, by 
charming away half my cares. 

Yours affectionately. 

Mary. 

LETTER IX 

Tuesday Morning [Paris, Dec, 31, 1793]. 

Though I have just sent a letter 

off, yet, as captain offers to take 

one, I am not willing to let him go 
without a kind greeting, because 
trifles of this sort, without having 

2 



18 LETTERS 

any effect on my mind, damp my 
spirits: — and you, with all your 
struggles to be manly, have some of 
his same sensibility. — Do not bid it 
begone, for 1 love to see it striving 
to master your features ; besides, 
these kind of sympathies are the life 
of affection : and why, in cultivating 
our understandings, should we try to 
dry up these springs of pleasure, 
which gush out to give a freshness to 
days browned by care ! 

The books sent to me are such as 
we may read together ; so I shall 
not look into them till you return ; 
when you shall read, whilst I mend 
my stockings. 

Yours truly, 

Mary. 

LETTER X 

Wednesday Night [Paris ^ Jan, 1, 1794], 

i\s I have been, you tell me, three 
days without writing, I ought not to 
complain of two : yet, as I expected 



TO IMLAY 19 

to receive a letter this afternoon, I 
am hurt ; and why should I, by con- 
cealing it, affect the heroism I do 
not feel? 

1 hate commerce. How differ- 
ently must 's head and heart 

be organized from mine ! You will 
tell me, that exertions are necessary : 
I am weary of them ! The face of 
things, public and private, vexes me. 
The " peace " and clemency which 
seemed to be dawning a few days 
ago, disappear again. " I am fallen," 
as Milton said, " on evil days ; " for I 
really believe that Europe will be in 
a state of convulsion, during half a 
century at least. Life is but a labour 
of patience : it is always rolling a 
great stone up a hill ; for, before a 
person can find a resting-place, im- 
agining it is lodged, down it comes 
again, and all the work is to be done 
over anew ! 

Should I attempt to write any 
more, I could not change the strain* 
My head aches, and my heart is heavy. 



20 LETTERS 

The world appears an " unweeded 
garden," where "things rank and 
vile " flourish best. 

If you do not return soon — or, 
which is no such mighty matter, talk 
of it — I will throw your slippers out 
at window, and be off — nobody knows 
where. 

Mary. 

Finding that I was observed, I 
told the good women, the two Mrs. 

s, simply that I was with child : 

and let them stare ! and , and 

, nay, all the world, may know 

it for aught I care ! — Yet I wish to 
avoid 's coarse jokes. 

Considering the care and anxiety 
a woman must have about a child 
before it comes into the world, it 
seems to me, by a natural right, to 
belong to her. When men get im- 
mersed in the world, they seem to 
lose all sensations, excepting those 
necessary to continue or produce 
life ! — Are these the privileges of 



TO IMLAY 21 

reason ? Amongst the feathered race, 
whilst the hen keeps the young warm, 
her mate stays by to cheer her ; but 
it is sufficient for man to condescend 
to get a child, in order to claim it. — 
A man is a tyrant ! 

You may now tell me, that, if it 
were not for me, you would be laugh- 
ing away with some honest fellows in 
London. The casual exercise of social 
sympathy would not be sufficient for 
me — I should not think such an 
heartless life worth preserving. — It is 
necessary to be in good-humour 
with you, to be pleased with the 
world. 



Thmsday Morning [Paris ^ Jan, 2, 1794]. 

I WAS very low-spirited last nighty 
ready to quarrel with your cheerful 
temper, which makes absence easy 
to you. — And, why should I mince 
the matter ? I was offended at your 
not even mentioning it — I do not 
want to be loved like a goddess but 



22 LETTERS 

I wish to be necessary to you. God 
bless you ! ^ 

LETTER XI 

Monday Night [Paris^ Jan. 1794]. 

I HAVE just received your kind and 
rational letter, and would fain hide 
my face, glowing with shame for my 
folly. — I would hide it in your bosom, 
if you would again open it to me, 
and nestle closely till you bade my 
fluttering heart be still, by saying that 
you forgave me. With eyes over- 
flowing with tears, and in the humblest 
attitude, I entreat you. — Do not turn 
from me, for indeed I love you fondly, 
and have been very wretched, since 
the night I was so cruelly hurt by 
thinking that you had no confidence 
in me 

It is time for me to grow more 
reasonable, a few more of these 

' Some further letters, written during the re- 
mainder of the week, in a similar strain to the 
preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the 
person to whom they were addressed.— W. G. 



TO IMLAY 23 

caprices of sensibility would destroy 
me. I have, in fact, been very much 
indisposed for a few days past, and 
the notion that I was tormenting, 
or perhaps killing, a poor little 
animal, about whom I am grown 
anxious and tender, now I feel it 
alive, made me worse. My bowels 
have been dreadfully disordered, and 
every thing I ate or drank disagreed 
with my stomach ; still I feel intima- 
tions of its existence, though they 
have been fainter. 

Do you think that the creature goes 
regularly to sleep? I am ready to 
ask as many questions as Voltaire's 
Man of Forty Crowns. Ah ! do not 
continue to be angry with me ! You 
perceive that I am already smiling 
through my tears — You have light- 
ened my heart, and my frozen spirits 
are melting into playfulness. 

Write the moment you receive 
this. I shall count the minutes. 
But drop not an angry word — I 
cannot now bear it. Yet, if you 



24 LETTERS 

think I deserve a scolding (it does 
not admit of a question, I grant), 
wait till you come back — and then, 
if you are angry one day, I shall be 
sure of seeing you the next. 

did not write to you, I 

suppose, because he talked of going 
to Havre. Hearing that I was ill, 
he called very kindly on me, not 
dreaming that it was some words that 
he incautiously let fall, which rendered 
me so. 

God bless you, my love ; do not 
shut your heart against a return of 
tenderness ; and, as I now in fancy 
cling to you, be more than ever my 
support. — Feel but as affectionate 
when you read this letter, as I did 
writing it, and you will make happy 

y^^^ Mahy. 

LETTER XII 

Wednesday Morjiing [Paris, Jan. 1794]. 
I WILL never, if I am not entirely 
cured of quarrelling, begin to en- 



TO IMLAY 25 

courage "quick-coming fancies," when 
we are separated. Yesterday, my 
love, I could not open your letter for 
some time ; and, though it was not 
half as severe as I merited, it threw 
me into such a fit of trembling, as 
seriously alarmed me. I did not, as 
you may suppose, care for a little 
pain on my own account ; but all the 
fears which I have had for a few days 
past, returned with fresh force. This 
morning I am better ; will you not 
be glad to hear it ? You perceive that 
sorrow has almost made a child of me, 
and that I want to be soothed to peace. 
One thing you mistake in my cha- 
racter, and imagine that to be coldness 
which is just the contrary. For, 
when I am hurt by the person most 
dear to me, I must let out a whole 
torrent of emotions, in which tender- 
ness would be uppermost, or stifle 
them altogether; and it appears to 
me almost a duty to stifle them, when 
I imagine that I am treated with 
coldness. 



S6 LETTERS 

I am afraid that 1 have vexed you, 
my own [Imlay]. I know the quick- 
ness of your feelings — and let me, in 
the sincerity of my heart, assure you, 
there is nothing I would not suffer 
to make you happy. My own happi- 
ness wholly depends on you — and, 
knowing you, when my reason is not 
clouded, I look forward to a rational 
prospect of as much felicity as the 
earth affords — with a little dash of 
rapture into the bargain, if you will 
look at me, when we work again, as 
you have sometimes greeted, your 
humbled, yet most affectionate 

Mary. 



LETTER XIII 

Thursday Night [Paris^ Jan. 1794]. 

I HAVE been wishing the time away, 
my kind love, unable to rest till I 
knew that my penitential letter had 
reached your hand — and this after- 
noon, when your tender epistle of 



TO IMLAY 27 

Tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure 
to your poor sick girl, her heart smote 
her to think that you were still to 
receive another cold one. — Burn it 
also, my [Imlay]; yet do not forget 
that even those letters were full of 
love ; and I shall ever recollect, that 
you did not wait to be mollified by 
my penitence, before you took me 
again to your heart. 

I have been unwell, and would 
not, now I am recovering, take a 
journey, because I have been seriously 
alarmed and angry with myself, 
dreading continually the fatal con- 
sequence of my folly. — But, should 
you think it right to remain at 
Havre, I shall find some opportunity, 
in the course of a fortnight, or less 
perhaps, to come to you, and before 
then I shall be strong again. — Yet 
do not be uneasy ! I am really 
better, and never took such care of 
myself, as I have done since you 
restored my peace of mind. The 
girl is come to warm my bed— so I 



28 LETTERS 

will tenderly say, good-night ! and 
write a line or two in the morning. 

Morning, 

I WISH you were here to walk 
with me this fine morning ! yet your 
absence shall not prevent me. I have 
stayed at home too much ; though, 
when I was so dreadfully out of 
spirits, I was careless of every thing. 

I will now sally forth (you will 
go with me in my heart) and try 
whether this fine bracing air will 
not give the vigour to the poor babe, 
it had, before I so inconsiderately 
gave way to the grief that deranged 
my bowels, and gave a turn to my 
whole system. 

Yours truly 
Mary Imlay. 

LETTER XIV 

Saturday Morning \Paris, Feb. 1 794]. 

The two or three letters, which I 
have written to you lately, my love. 



TO IMLAY 29 

will serve as an answer to your ex- 
planatory one. I cannot but respect 
your motives and conduct. I always 
respected them ; and was only 
hurt, by what seemed to me a want 
of confidence, and consequently 
affection. — I thought also, that if 
you were obliged to stay three 
months at Havre, I might as well 
have been with you. — Well ! well, 
what signifies what I brooded over 
— Let us now be friends ! 

I shall probably receive a letter 
from you to-day, sealing my pardon 
— and I will be careful not to tor- 
ment you with my querulous humours, 
at least, till I see you again. Act 
as circumstances direct, and I will 
not enquire w^hen they will permit 
you to return, convinced that you 
will hasten to your Mary, when you 
have attained (or lost sight of) the 
object of your journey. 

What a picture have you sketched 
of our fire-side ! Yes, my love, my 
fancy was instantly at work, and 



30 LETTERS 

I found my head on your shoulder, 
whilst my eyes were fixed on the 
little creatures that were clinging 
about your knees. I did not 
absolutely determine that there 
should be six — if you have not set 
your heart on this round number. 

I am going to dine with Mrs. — — . 
I have not been to visit her since the 
first day she came to Paris. I wish 
indeed to be out in the air as much as 
I can ; for the exercise I have taken 
these two or three days past, has been 
of such service to me, that I hope 
shortly to tell you, that I am quite 
well. 1 have scarcely slept before last 
night, and then not much. — The two 

Mrs. s have been very anxious 

and tender. 

Yours truly 
Mary. 

I need not desire you to give the 
colonel a good bottle of wine. 



TO IMLAY 31 

LETTER XV 

Sunday Morning \Paris, Feb, 1794]. 

I WROTE to you yesterday, my 
[Imlay] ; but, finding that the colonel 
is still detained (for his passport was 
forgotten at the office yesterday) I am 
not willing to let so many days elapse 
without your hearing from me, after 
having talked of illness and appre- 
hensions. 

I cannot boast of being quite 
recovered, yet I am (I must use my 
Yorkshire phrase ; for, when my 
heart is warm, pop come the ex- 
pressions of childhood into my head) 
so lightsome, that I think it will not 
go badly with me. — And nothing shall 
be wanting on my part, 1 assure you ; 
for I am urged on, not only by an 
enhvened affection for you, but by 
a new-born tenderness that plays 
cheerly round my dilating heart. 

I was therefore, in defiance of cold 
and dirt, out in the air the greater 



32 LETTERS 

part of yesterday ; and, if I get over 
this evening without a return of the 
fever that has tormented me, I shall 
talk no more of illness. I have 
promised the little creature, that its 
mother, who ought to cherish it, will 
not again plague it, and begged it to 
pardon me ; and, since I could not 
hug either it or you to my breast, 
I have to my heart. — I am afraid to 
read over this prattle — but it is only 
for your eye. 

I have been seriously vexed, to find 
that, whilst you were harrassed by 
impediments in your undertakings, I 
was giving you additional uneasiness. 
— If you can make any of your plans 
answer — it is well, I do not think a 
little money inconvenient ; but, should 
they fail, we will struggle cheerfully 
together — drawn closer by the pinch- 
ing blasts of poverty. 

Adieu, my love ! Write often to 
your poor girl, and write long letters ; 
for I not only like them for being 
longer, but because more heart steals 



TO IMLAY 33 

into them ; and I am happy to catch 
your heart whenever I can. 

Yours sincerely 

Mary. 

LETTER XVI 

Tuesday Morning [Paris, Feb, 1794]. 

I SEIZE this opportunity to inform 
you, that I am to set out on Thursday 

with Mr. , and hope to tell you 

soon (on your lips) how glad I shall 
be to see you. I have just got my 
passport, for I do not foresee any im- 
pediment to my reaching Havre, to 
bid you good-night next Friday in 
my new apartment — where I am to 
meet you and love, in spite of care, 
to smile me to sleep — for I have not 
caught much rest since we parted. 

You have, by your tenderness and 
worth, twisted yourself more artfully 
round my heart, than I supposed pos- 
sible. — Let me indulge the thought, 
that I have thrown out some tendrils 
to cling to the elm by which I wish 
to be supported. — This is talking a 

3 



34 LETTERS 

new language for me 1 — But, know- 
ing that I am not a parasite-plant, I 
am willing to receive the proofs of 
affection, that every pulse replies to, 
when I think of being once more in 
the same house with you. God bless 
you ! Yours truly 

Mary. 

LETTER XVII 

Wednesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]. 

I ONLY send this as an avant- 
coureur, without jack-boots, to tell 
you, that I am again on the wing, 
and hope to be with you a few hours 
after you receive it. I shall find you 
well, and composed, I am sure ; or, 
more properly speaking, cheerful. — 
What is the reason that my spirits 
are not as manageable as yours ? 
Yet, now I think of it, I will not 
allow that your temper is even, 
though I have promised myself, in 
order to obtain my own forgiveness, 
that I will not ruffle it for a long, 
long time — I am afraid to say never. 



TO IMLAY 35 

Farewell for a moment ! — Do not 
forget that I am driving towards you 
in person ! My mind, unfettered, 
has flown to you long since, or rather 
has never left you. 

I am well, and have no apprehension 
that I shall find the journey too 
fatiguing, when I follow the lead of 
my heart. — With my face turned to 
Havre my spirits will not sink — and 
my mind has always hitherto enabled 
my body to do whatever I wished. 
Yours affectionately, 

Mary. 

LETTER XVIIl 

Thursday Morning, Havre ^ March 12 [1T94]. 

We are such creatures of habit, my 
love, that, though I cannot say I was 
sorry, childishly so, for your going,^ 
when I knew that you were to stay 
such a short time, and I had a plan 

^ Imlay went to Paris on March 11^ after spending 
a fortnight at Havre^ but he returned to Mary soon 
after the date of Letter XIX. In August he went 
to Paris, where he was followed by Mary. In 
-September Imlay visited London on business. 



36 LETTERS 

of employment ; yet I could not sleep. 
— I turned to your side of the bed, 
and tried to make the most of the 
comfort of the pillow, which you used 
to tell me I was churlish about ; but 
all would not do. — I took neverthe- 
less my walk before breakfast, though 
the weather was not very inviting — 
and here I am, wishing you a finer 
day, and seeing you peep over my 
shoulder, as I write, with one of your 
kindest looks — when your eyes glisten, 
and a suffusion creeps over your re- 
laxing features. 

But I do not mean to dally with 
you this morning — So God bless you ! 
Take care of yourself — and sometimes 
fold to your heart your affectionate 

Mary. 

LETTER XIX 

[IIav7'e, March, 1794]. 

Do not call me stupid, for leaving 
on the table the little bit of paper 1 
was to inclose. — ^This comes of being 
in love at the fag-end of a letter of 



TO IMLAY m 

business. — You know, you say, they 
will not chime together.— I had got 
you by the fire-side, with the gigot 
smoking on the board, to lard your 
poor bare ribs — and behold, I closed 
my letter without taking the paper 
up, that was directly under my eyes ! 
What had I got in them to render 
me so blind ? — I give you leave to 
answer the question, if you will not 
scold ; for 1 am, 

Yours most aiFectionately, 

Mary. 

LETTER XX 

[Havre] Sunday/, August 17 [1794]. 

■Jjr ^ ^ «^ »P 

I HAVE promised to go with 

him to his country-house, where he 
is now permitted to dine — I, and the 
little darling, to be sure ^ — whom I 
cannot help kissing with more fond- 
ness, since you left us. I think I 

1 The child spoken of in some preceding lettersj, 
had now been born a considerable time. She was 
born. May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny. — W. G. 



88 LETTERS 

shall enjoy the fine prospect, and 
that it will rather enliven, than 
satiate my imagination. 

I have called on Mrs. . She has 

the manners of a gentlewoman, with 
a dash of the easy French coquetry, 
which renders her piquant e, — But 
Monsieur her husband, whom nature 
never dreamed of casting in either the 
mould of a gentleman or lover, makes 
but an aukward figure in the fore- 
ground of the picture. 

The H s are very ugly, without 

doubt — and the house smelt of com- 
merce from top to toe — so that his 
abortive attempt to display taste, 
only proved it to be one of the things 
not to be bought with gold. I was 
in a room a moment alone, and my at- 
tention was attracted by the pendule 
— A nymph was offering up her vows 
before a smoking altar, to a fat-bot- 
tomed Cupid (saving your presence), 
who was kicking his heels in the 
air. — Ah ! kick on, thought I ; for 
the demon of traffic will ever fright 



TO IMLAY 39 

away the loves and graces, that streak 
with the rosy beams of infant fancy 
the sombre day of Hfe — whilst the 
imagination, not allowing us to see 
things as they are, enables us to 
catch a hasty draught of the run- 
ning stream of delight, the thirst for 
which seems to be given only to 
tantalize us. 

But I am philosophizing; nay, 
perhaps you will call me severe, 
and bid me let the square-headed 
money-getters alone. — Peace to them ! 
though none of the social sprites (and 
there are not a few of different de- 
scriptions, w^ho sport about the various 
inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch 
to restrain my pen. 

I have been writing on, expecting 

poor to come ; for, when I 

began, I merely thought of business ; 
and, as this is the idea that most 
naturally associates with your image, 
I wonder I stumbled on any other. 

Yet, as common life, in my opinion, 
is scarcely worth having, even with a 



40 LETTERS 

gigot every day, and a pudding added 
thereunto, I will allow you to culti- 
vate my judgment, if you will permit 
me to keep alive the sentiments in 
your heart, which may be termed 
romantic, because, the offspring of 
the senses and the imagination, they 
resemble the mother more than the 
father,^ when they produce the 
suffusion I admire. — In spite of icy 
age, I hope still to see it, if you have 
not determined only to eat and drink, 
and be stupidly useful to the stupid — 

Yours, 
Mary. 

LETTER XXI 

Havre ^ August 19 [1794] Tuesday. 

I RECEIVED both your letters to-day 
— I had reckoned on hearing from 
you yesterday, therefore was disap- 
pointed, though I imputed your 
silence to the right cause. I intended 

' She means, " the latter more than the former." 
--W. G. 



TO IMLAY 41 

answering your kind letter immedi- 
ately, that you might have felt the 

pleasure it gave me ; but came 

in, and some other things interrupted 
me ; so that the fine vapour has 
evaporated — yet, leaving a sweet scent 
behind, I have only to tell you, what 
is sufficiently obvious, that the earnest 
desire I have shown to keep my place, 
or gain more ground in your heart, 
is a sure proof how necessary your 
affection is to my happiness. — Still I 
do not think it false delicacy, or 
foolish pride, to wish that your at- 
tention to my happiness should arise 
as much from love, which is always 
rather a selfish passion, as reason — 
that is, I want you to promote my 
felicity, by seeking your own. — For, 
whatever pleasure it may give me to 
discover your generosity of soul, 1 
would not be dependent for your 
affection on the very quality I most 
admire. No ; there are qualities in 
your heart, which demand my affec- 
tion ; but, unless the attachment 



42 LETTERS 

appears to me clearly mutual, I shall 
labour only to esteem your character, 
instead of cherishing a tenderness for 
your person. 

I write in a hurry, because the little 
one, who has been sleeping a long 
time, begins to call for me. Poor 
thing ! when I am sad, I lament that 
all my affections grow on me, till 
they become too strong for my peace, 
though they all afford me snatches 
of exquisite enjoyment — This for our 
little girl was at first very reasonable 
— more the effect of reason, a sense 
of duty, than feeling — now, she has 
got into my heart and imagination, 
and when I walk out without her, her 
little figure is ever dancing before me. 

You too have somehow clung round 
my heart — I found I could not eat 
my dinner in the great room — and, 
when I took up the large knife to 
carve for myself, tears rushed into 
my eyes. — Do not however suppose 
that I am melancholy — for, when you 
are from me, I not only wonder how 



TO IMLAY 43 

I can find fault with you — but how 
I can doubt your affection. 

I will not mix any comments on 
the inclosed (it roused my indignation) 
with the effusion of tenderness, with 
which I assure you, that you are the 
friend of my bosom, and the prop 
of my heart. 

Mary. 

LETTER XXII 

Havre ^ August 20 [1794]. 

I WANT to know what steps you 

have taken respecting . Knavery 

always rouses my indignation — I 
should be gratified to hear that the 

law had chastised severely; but 

I do not wish you to see him, because 
the business does not now admit of 
peaceful discussion, and I do not ex- 
actly know how you would express 
your contempt. 

Pray ask some questions about 
Tallien — I am still pleased with the 
dignity of his conduct. — The other 



44 LETTERS 

day, in the cause of humanity, he 
made use of a degree of address, which 
I admire —and mean to point out to 
you, as one of the few instances of 
address which do credit to the abiUties 
of the man, without taking away 
from that confidence in his openness 
of heart, which is the true basis of 
both pubUc and private friendship. 

Do not suppose that I mean to 
allude to a little reserve of temper in 
you, of which I have sometimes com- 
plained ! You have been used to a 
cunning woman, and you almost look 
for cunning — Nay, in managing my 
happiness, you now and then wounded 
my sensibility, concealing yourself, 
till honest sympathy, giving you to 
me without disguise, lets me look 
into a heart, which my half-broken 
one wishes to creep into, to be re- 
vived and cherished. — You have frank- 
ness of heart, but not often exactly 
that overflowing {epanchement de 
C6j?2^r), which becoming almost childish, 
appears a weakness only to the weak. 



TO IMLAY 45 

But I have left poor Tallien. I 
wanted you to enquire likewise 
whether, as a member declared in 
the convention, Robespierre really 
maintained a number of mistresses. — 
Should it prove so, I suspect that 
they rather flattered his vanity than 
his senses. 

Here is a chatting, desultory epistle 1 
But do not suppose that I mean to 
close it without mentioning the little 
damsel — who has been almost spring- 
ing out of my arm — she certainly 
looks very like you — but I do not 
love her the less for that, whether 
1 am angry or pleased with you. 
Yours affectionately, 
Mary. 

LETTER XXIII^ 

[Paris'] September 22 [1794]. 

I HAVE just written two letters, 
that are going by other conveyances, 

^ This is the first of a series of letters written 
during a separation of many months, to which no 
cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent 
fromPariSj and bear the address of London. — W. G. 



46 LETTERS 

and which 1 reckon on your receiving 
long before this. I therefore merely 
write, because I know I should be 
disappointed at seeing any one who 
had left you, if you did not send a 
letter, were it ever so short, to tell 
me why you did not write a longer 
— and you will want to be told, 
over and over again, that our little 
Hercules is quite recovered. 

Besides looking at me, there are 
three other things, which delight her 
— to ride in a coach, to look at a 
scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music 
— yesterday, at the^^^^, she enjoyed 
the two latter; but, to honour J. J. 
Rousseau, T intend to give her a sash, 
the first she has ever had round her 
— and why not ? — for I have always 
been half in love with him. 

Well, this you will say is trifling — 
shall I talk about alum or soap ? 
There is nothing picturesque in your 
present pursuits ; my imagination 
then rather chuses to ramble back to 
the barrier with you, or to see you 



TO IMLAY 47 

coming to meet me, and my basket 
of grapes. — With what pleasure do 
I recollect your looks and words, 
when I have been sitting on the 
window, regarding the waving corn ! 
Believe me, sage sir, you have not 
sufficient respect for the imagination 
— I could prove to you in a trice 
that it is the mother of sentiment, 
the great distinction of our nature, 
the only purifier of the passions — 
animals have a portion of reason, and 
equal, if not more exquisite, senses ; 
but no trace of imagination, or her 
offspring taste, appears in any of their 
actions. The impulse of the senses, 
passions, if you will, and the con- 
clusions of reason, draw men together ; 
but the imagination is the true fire, 
stolen from heaven, to animate this 
cold creature of clay, producing all 
those fine sympathies that lead to 
rapture, rendering men social by ex- 
panding their hearts, instead of leaving 
them leisure to calculate how many 
comforts society affords. 



48 LETTERS 

If you call these observations 
romantic, a phrase in this place which 
would be tantamount to nonsensical, 
I shall be apt to retort, that you are 
embruted by trade, and the vulgar 
enjoyments of life — Bring me then 
back your barrier-face, or you shall 
have nothing to say to my barrier- 
girl; and I shall fly from you, to 
cherish the remembrances that will 
ever be dear to me ; for I am yours 
truly, 

Mary. 

LETTER XXIV 

[Paris] Evening, Sept 23, [1794]. 

I HAVE been playing and laughing 
with the little girl so long, that I 
cannot take up my pen to address 
you without emotion. Pressing her 
to my bosom, she looked so like you 
(entre nous, your best looks, for I do 
not admire your commercial face) 
every nerve seemed to vibrate to the 
touch, and I began to think that 



TO IMLAY 49 

there was something in the assertion 
of man and wife being one — for you 
seemed to pervade my whole frame, 
quickening the beat of my heart, and 
lending me the sympathetic tears you 
excited. 

Have I any thing more to say to 
you ? No ; not for the present — the 
rest is all flown away ; and, indulging 
tenderness for you, I cannot now 
complain of some people here, who 
have ruffled my temper for two or 
three days past. 

[Paris, 1794] Morning. 

Yesterday B sent to me for 

my packet of letters. He called on 
me before ; and I like him better 
than I did — that is, I have the same 
opinion of his understanding, but I 
think with you, he has more tender- 
ness and real delicacy of feeling with 
respect to women, than are commonly 
to be met with. His manner too of 
speaking of his little girl, about the 

4 



50 LETTERS 

age of mine, interested me. I gave 
him a letter for my sister, and re- 
quested him to see her. 

I have been interrupted. Mr. 

I suppose will write about business. 
Public affairs I do not descant on, ex- 
cept to tell you that they write now 
with great freedom and truth ; and 
this liberty of the press will over- 
throw the Jacobins, I plainly 
perceive. 

I hope you take care of your 
health. I have got a habit of rest- 
lessness at night, which arises, I be- 
heve, from activity of mind ; for, 
when I am alone, that is, not near 
one to whom I can open my heart, 
I sink into reveries and trains of 
thinking, which agitate and fatigue 
me. 

This is my third letter ; when am 
I to hear from you ? I need not tell 
you, I suppose, that I am now 
writing with somebody in the room 

with me, and is waiting to 

carry this to Mr. 's. I will then 



TO IMLAY 51 

kiss the girl for you, and bid you 
adieu. 

I desired you, in one of my other 
letters, to bring back to me your 
barrier-face — or that you should not 
be loved by my barrier-girl. I know 
that you will love her more and 
more, for she is a little affectionate^ 
intelligent creature, with as much 
vivacity, I should think, as you could 
wish for. 

I was going to tell you of two or 
three things which displease me here ; 
but they are not of sufficient con- 
sequence to interrupt pleasing sensa- 
tions. I have received a letter from 

Mr. . I want you to bring 

with you. Madame S is by me, 

reading a German translation of your 
letters — she desires me to give her love 
to you, on account of what you say 
of the Hegroes. 

Yours most affectionately, 

Mary. 



52 LETTERS 

LETTER XXV 

Paris, Sept. 2S [1794]. 

I HAVE written to you three or 
four letters ; but diiFerent causes have 
prevented my sending them by the 
persons who promised to take or 
forward them. The inclosed is one 

I wrote to go by B ; yet, finding 

that he will not arrive, before I hope, 
and believe, you will have set out 
on your return, I inclose it to you, 

and shall give it in charge to , 

as Mr. is detained, to whom 

I also gave a letter. 

I cannot help being anxious to 
Jiear from you ; but I shall not 
harrass you with accounts of in- 
<quietudes, or of cares that arise from 
peculiar circumstances. — I have had 
so many little plagues here, that I 
have almost lamented that I left 

Havre. , who is at best a most 

helpless creature, is now, on account 
of her pregnancy, more trouble than 



TO IMLAY 5S 

use to me, so that I still continue 
to be almost a slave to the child. — 
She indeed rewards me, for she is a 
sweet little creature ; for, setting 
aside a mother's fondness (which, by 
the bye, is growing on me, her little 
intelligent smiles sinking into my 
heart), she has an astonishing degree 
of sensibility and observation. The 

other day by B 's child, a fine 

one, she looked like a little sprite.— 
She is all life and motion, and her 
eyes are not the eyes of a fool — I will 
swear. 

I slept at St. Germain's, in the 
very room (if you have not forgot) 
in which you pressed me very tenderly 
to your heart. — I did not forget to 
fold my darling to mine, with sensa- 
tions that are almost too sacred to 
be alluded to. 

Adieu, my love ! Take care of 
yourself, if you wish to be the pro- 
tector of your child, and the comfort 
of her mother. 

I have received, for you, letters 



54 LETTERS 

from . I want to hear how 

that affair finishes, though I do not 
know whether I have most contempt 
for his folly or knavery. 

Your own 

Mary. 



LETTER XXVI 

[Paris] October 1 [1794]. 

It is a heartless task to write 
letters, without knowing whether 
they will ever reach you. — I have 

given two to , who has been 

a-going, a-going, every day, for a 
week past ; and three others, which 
were written in a low-spirited strain, 
a little querulous or so, I have not 
been able to forward by the oppor- 
tunities that were mentioned to me. 
Ta7it mieux ! you will say, and I wiU 
not say nay ; for I should be sorry 
that the contents of a letter, when 
you are so far away, should damp 
the pleasure that the sight of it 



TO IMLAY 55 

would afford — judgingof your feelings 
by my own. I just now stumbled 
on one of the kind letters, which you 
wrote during your last absence. You 
are then a dear affectionate creature, 
and I will not plague you. The 
letter v/hich you chance to receive, 
when the absence is so long, ought 
to bring only tears of tenderness, 
without any bitter alloy, into your 
eyes. 

After your return I hope indeed, 
that you will not be so immersed in 
business, as during the last three or 
four months past — for even money, 
taking into the account all the future 
comforts it is to procure, may be 
gained at too dear a rate, if painful 
impressions are left on the mind.— 
These impressions were much more 
lively, soon after you went away, 
than at present — for a thousand 
tender recollections efface the melan-^ 
choly traces they left on my mind — 
and every emotion is on the same side 
as my reason, which always was on 



56 LETTERS 

yours. — Separated, it would be al- 
most impious to dwell on real or 
imaginary imperfections of character. 
— I feel that I love you ; and, if I 
cannot be happy with you, I will 
seek it no where else. 

My little darling grows every day 
more dear to me — and she often has 
a kiss, when we are alone together, 
which I give her for you, with all 
my heart. 

I have been interrupted — and must 
send off my letter. The liberty of 
the press will produce a great effect 
here — the a^y of blood will not be 
vain! — Some more monsters will 
perish — and the Jacobins are con- 
quered. — Yet I almost fear the last 
flap of the tail of the beast. 

I have had several trifling teazing 
inconveniences here, which 1 shall 
not now trouble you with a detail 

of. — I am sending back ; her 

pregnancy rendered her useless. The 
girl I have got has more vivacity, 
which is better for the child. 



TO IMLAY 57 

I long to hear from you. — Bring 
a copy of — — and with you. 

is still here : he is a lost 

man. — He really loves his wife, and 
is anxious about his children ; but 
his indiscriminate hospitality and 
social feelings have given him an 
inveterate habit of drinking, that 
destroys his health, as well as renders 
his person disgusting. — If his wife 
had more sense, or delicacy, she 
might restrain him : as it is, nothing 
wdll save him. 
Yours most truly and affectionately 

Mahy. 

LETTER XXVII 

[Paris] October 26 [1794]. 

My dear love, I began to wish so 
earnestly to hear from you, that the 
sight of your letters occasioned such 
pleasurable emotions, I was obliged 
to throw them aside till the little 
girl and I were alone together ; and 
this said little girl, our darling, is 



58 LETTERS 

become a most intelligent little 
creature, and as gay as a lark, and 
that in the morning too, which 1 do 
not find quite so convenient. I once 
told you, that the sensations before 
she was born, and when she is sucking, 
were pleasant ; but they do not de- 
serve to be compared to the emotions 
1 feel, when she stops to smile upon 
me, or laughs outright on meeting 
me unexpectedly in the street, or 
after a short absence. She has now 
the advantage of having two good 
nurses, and I am at present able to 
discharge my duty to her, without 
being the slave of it. 

I have therefore employed and 

amused myself since I got rid of , 

and am making a progress in the 
language amongst other things. I 
have also made some new acquaint- 
ance. I have almost charmed a judge 

of the tribunal, R , who, though 

I should not have thought it possible, 
has humanity, if not beaucoup 
d'esprit. But let me tell you, if you 



TO IMLAY 59 

do not make haste back, I shall be 
half in love with the author of the 
Marseillaise, who is a handsome 
man, a Httle too broad-faced or so, 
and plays sweetly on the violin. 

What do you say to this threat ? 
— why, entre nous, I like to give 
way to a sprightly vein, when writing 
to you, that is, when I am pleased 
with you. " The devil," you know, 
is proverbially said to be " in a good 
humour, when he is pleased." Will 
you not then be a good boy, and 
come back quickly to play with 
your girls ? but I shall not allow you 
to love the new-comer best. 



heart longs for your return, 
my love, and only looks for, and 
seeks happiness with you ; yet do 
not imagine that I childishly wish 
you to come back, before you have 
arranged things in such a manner, 
that it will not be necessary for you 
to leave us soon again, or to make 



60 LETTERS 

exertions which injure your constitu- 
tion. 

Yours most truly and tenderly, 

Mary. 

P.S. You would oblige me by 

delivering the inclosed to Mr. , 

and pray call for an answer. — It 
is for a person uncomfortably situated. 

LETTER XXVIII 

[Paris] Dec, 26 [1794]. 

I HAVE been, my love, for some 
days tormented by fears, that I 
would not allow to assume a form — 
I had been expecting you daily — 
and I heard that many vessels had 
been driven on shore durinsr the late 
gale. — Well, I now see your letter — 
and find that you are safe ; I will 
not regret then that your exertions 
have hitherto been so unavailing. 

5fe ^ vP y^ * 

Be that as it may, return to me 
when you have arranged the other 



TO IMLAY 61 

matters, which has been crowd- 
ing on you. I want to be sure that 
you are safe — and not separated from 
me by a sea that must be passed. 
For, feehng that I am happier than 
I ever was, do you wonder at my 
sometimes dreading that fate has 
not done persecuting me ? Come to 
me, my dearest friend, husband, 
father of my child ! — All these fond 
ties glow at my heart at this moment, 
and dim my eyes. — With you an 
independence is desirable ; and it is 
always within our reach, if affluence 
escapes us — without you the world 
again appears empty to me. But 
1 am recurring to some of the 
melancholy thoughts that have flitted 
across my mind for some days past, 
and haunted my dreams. 

My little darling is indeed a sweet 
child ; and I am sorry that you are 
not here, to see her little mind un- 
fold itself. You talk of " dalliance ; " 
but certainly no lover was ever more 
attached to his mistress, than she 



6^ LETTERS 

is to me. Her eyes follow me every 
where, and by afFeetion I have the 
most despotic power over her. She 
is all vivacity or softness — yes ; I 
love her more than I thought I 
should. When 1 have been hurt 
at your stay, I have embraced her 
as my only comfort — when pleased 
with you, for looking and laughing 
like you ; nay, I cannot, I find, long 
be angry with you, whilst I am kissing 
her for resembling you. But there 
would be no end to these details. 
Fold us both to your heart ; for I 
am truly and affectionately 

Yours, 

Mary, 



LETTER XXIX 

[Paris] December 28 [1794]. 

***** 

I DO, my love, indeed sincerely 
sympathize with you in all your dis- 
appointments. — Yet, knowing that 



TO IMLAY 6S 

you are well, and think of me with 
affection, 1 only lament other disap- 
pointments, because I am sorry that 
you should thus exert yourself in vain, 
and that you are kept from me. 

, 1 know, urges you to stay, 

and is continually branching out into 
new projects, because he has the idle 
desire to amass a large fortune, rather 
an immense one, merely to have the 
credit of having made it. But we 
who are governed by other motives, 
ought not to be led on by him. When 
we meet, we will discuss this subject 
— You will listen to reason, and it has 
probably occurred to you, that it will 
be better, in future, to pursue some 
sober plan, which may demand more 
time, and still enable you to arrive at 
the same end. It appears to me 
absurd to waste life in preparing to 
live. 

Would it not now be possible to 
arrange your business in such a 
manner as to avoid the inquietudes, 
of which I have had my share since 



64 LETTERS 

your departure ? . Is it not possible to 
enter into business, as an employment 
necessary to keep the faculties awake, 
and (to sink a little in the expressions) 
the pot boiling, without suffering what 
must ever be considered as a secondary 
object, to engross the mind, and drive 
sentiment and affection out of the 
heart ? 

I am in a hurry to give this letter 
to the person who has promised to 

forward it with 's. I wish then 

to counteract, in some measure, what 
he has doubtless recommended most 
warmly. 

Stay, my friend, whilst it is abso- 
lutely necessary. — I will give you no 
tenderer name, though it glows at my 
heart, unless you come the moment 
the settling the present objects permit. 
— / do not consent to your taking any 
other journey — or the little woman 
and I will be off, the Lord knows where. 
But, as I had rather owe every thing 
to your affection, and, I may add, to 
your reason, (for this immoderate 



TO IMLAY 65 

desire of wealth, which makes 

so eager to have you remain, is 
contrary to your principles of action), 
I will not importune you. — I will 
only tell you, that I long to see you 
— and, being at peace with you, I shall 
be hurt, rather than made angry, by 
delays. — Having suffered so much in 
life, do not be surprised if I sometimes,, 
when left to myself, grow gloomy, and 
suppose that it was all a dream, and 
that my happiness is not to last. I 
say happiness, because remembrance 
retrenches all the dark shades of the 
picture. 

My little one begins to show her 
teeth, and use her legs — She wants 
you to bear your part in the nursing 
business, for I am fatigued with danc- 
ing her, and yet she is not satisfied — 
she wants you to thank her mother 
for taking such care of her, as you 
only can. 

Yours truly, 
Mary. 



66 LETTERS 

LETTER XXX 

[Pans] December 29 [1794]. 

Though I suppose you have later 

intelligence, yet, as has just 

informed me that he has an oppor- 
tunity of sending immediately to you, 
I take advantage of it to inclose you 

# * * * * 

How I hate this crooked business ! 
This intercourse with the world, w^hich 
obUges one to see the worst side of 
human nature ! Why cannot you be 
content with the object you had first 
in view, when you entered into this 
ivearisome labyrinth ? — I know very 
well that you have imperceptibly been 
drawn on ; yet why does one project, 
successful or abortive, only give place 
to two others ? Is it not sufficient to 
avoid poverty? — I am contented to 
do my part ; and, even here, sufficient 
to escape from wretchedness is not 
difficult to obtain. And, let me tell 



TO IMLAY 67 

you, I have my project also — and, if 
you do not soon return, the Httle girl 
and I will take care of ourselves ; we 
will not accept any of your cold 
kindness — your distant civilities — no ; 
not we. 

This is but half jesting, for I am 
really tormented by the desire which 

manifests to have you remain 

where you are. — Yet why do I talk 
to you ? — If he can persuade you — 
let him ! — for, if you are not happier 
with me, and your own wishes do 
not make you throw aside these 
eternal projects, I am above using 
any arguments, though reason as well 
as affection seems to offer them — if 
our affection be mutual, they will 
occur to you — and you will act ac- 
cordingly. 

Since my arrival here, I have found 
the German lady, of whom you have 
heard me speak. Her first child died 
in the month ; but she has another, 
about the age of my Fanny, a fine 
little creature. They are still but 



68 LETTERS 

contriving to live — earning their daily 
bread — yet, though they are but just 
above poverty, I envy them. — She 
is a tender, aiFectionate mother — 
fatigued even by her attention. — 
However she has an affectionate 
husband in her turn, to render her 
care light, and to share her pleasure. 

I will own to you that, feeling 
extreme tenderness for my little girl, 
1 grow sad very often when I am 
playing with her, that you are not 
here, to observe with me how her 
mind unfolds, and her little heart 
becomes attached ! — These appear to 
me to be true pleasures — and still 
you suffer them to escape you, in 
search of what we may never enjoy. 
— It is your own maxim to " live in 
the present moment." — If you do — 
stay, for God's sake ; but tell me 
the truth — if not, tell me when I 
may expect to see you, and let me 
not be always vainly looking for you, 
till I grow sick at heart. 

Adieu ! I am a little hurt. — I must 



TO IMLAY 69 

take my darling to my bosom to 
comfort me. 

Mary. 



LETTER XXXI 

[Paris] December 30 [1794]. 

Should you receive three or four 
of the letters at once which I have 
written lately, do not think of Sir 
John Brute, for I do not mean to 
wife you. I only take advantage of 
every occasion, that one out of three 
of my epistles may reach your hands, 
and inform you that I am not of 

's opinion, who talks till he 

makes me angry, of the necessity of 
your staying two or three months 
longer. I do not like this life of 
continual inquietude — and, e^iti^e nous, 
I am determined to try to earn some 
money here myself, in order to con-' 
vince you that, if you chuse to run 
about the world to get a fortune, 
it is for yourself — ^for the little girl 
and I will live without your assistance. 



70 LETTERS 

unless you are with us. I may be 
termed proud — Be it so — but I will 
never abandon certain principles of 
action. 

The common run of men have such 
an ignoble way of thinking, that, if 
they debauch their hearts, and prosti- 
tute their persons, following perhaps 
a gust of inebriation, they suppose 
the wife, slave rather, whom they 
maintain, has no right to complain, 
and ought to receive the sultan, 
whenever he deigns to return, with 
open arms, though his have been 
polluted by half an hundred promis- 
cuous amours during his absence. 

I consider fidelity and constancy as 
two distinct things ; yet the former 
is necessary, to give life to the other 
— and such a degree of respect do I 
think due to myself, that, if only 
probity, which is a good thing in 
its place, brings you back, never 
return ! — for, if a wandering of the 
heart, or even a caprice of the 
imagination detains you — there is an 



TO IMLAY n 

end of all my hopes of happiness — I 
could not forgive it, if I would. 

I have gotten into a melancholy 
mood, you perceive. You know my 
opinion of men in general ; you know 
that I think them systematic tyrants, 
and that it is the rarest thing in the 
world, to meet with a man with suf- 
ficient delicacy of feeling to govern 
desire. When I am thus sad, I 
lament that my little darling, fondly 
as I doat on her, is a girl. — I am 
sorry to have a tie to a world that 
for me is ever sown with thorns. 

You will call this an ill-humoured 
letter, when, in fact, it is the strongest 
proof of affection I can give, to dread 

to lose you. has taken such 

pains to convince me that you must 
and ought to stay, that it has incon- 
ceivably depressed my spirits — You 
have always known my opinion — I 
have ever declared, that two people, 
who mean to live together, ought 
not to be long separated. — If certain 
things are more necessary to you 



72 LETTERS 

than me — search for them — Say but 
one word, and you shall never hear 
of me more. — If not — for God's sake, 
let us struggle with poverty — with 
any evil, but these continual in- 
quietudes of business, which I have 
been told were to last but a few 
months, though every day the end 
appears more distant ! This is the 
first letter in this strain that I have 
determined to forward to you ; the 
rest lie by, because I was unwilling 
to give you pain, and I should not 
now write, if I did not think that 
there would be no conclusion to the 
schemes, which demand, as I am 
told, your presence. 

Mary.' 

^ The person to whom the letters are addressed 
[Imlay], was about this time at Ramsgate, on his re- 
turn, as he professed, to Paris, when he was recalled, 
as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure 
of business now accumulated upon him. — W. G. 



TO IMLAY 73 

LETTER XXXII 

[Paris] JaniLary 9 [1795]. 

I JUST now received one of your 
hasty notes ; for business so entirely 
occupies you, that you have not time, 
or sufficient command of thought, to 
write letters. Beware ! you seem to 
be got into a whirl of projects and 
schemes, which are drawing you into 
a gulph, that, if it do not absorb 
your happiness, will infallibly destroy 
mine. 

Fatigued during my youth by the 
most arduous struggles, not only to 
obtain independence, but to render 
myself useful, not merely pleasure, 
for which I had the most lively taste, 
I mean the simple pleasures that flow 
from passion and affection, escaped 
me, but the "most melancholy views 
of life were impressed by a dis- 
appointed heart on my mind. Since 
I knew you, I have been endeavour- 
ing to go back to my former nature. 



74 LETTERS 

and have allowed some time to glide 
away, winged with the delight which 
only spontaneous enjoyment can 
give. — Why have you so soon dis- 
solved the charm. 

I am really unable to bear the 
continual inquietude which your and 

's never-ending plans produce. 

This you may term want of firmness 
— but you are mistaken — I have still 
sufficient firmness to pursue my 
principle of action. The present 
misery, I cannot find a softer word 
to do justice to my feelings, appears 
to me unnecessary — and therefore I 
have not firmness to support it as you 
may think I ought. I should have 
been content, and still wish, to retire 
with you to a farm — My God ! any 
thing, but these continual anxieties — 
any thing but commerce, which de- 
bases the mind, and roots out affec- 
tion from the heart. 

I do not mean to complain of 

subordinate inconveniences yet I 

will simply observe, that, led to ex- 



TO IMLAY 75 

pect you every week, I did not make 
the arrangements required by the 
present circumstances, to procure the 
necessaries of hfe. In order to have 
them, a servant, for that purpose 
only, is indispensible — The want of 
wood, has made me catch the most 
violent cold I ever had ; and my 
head is so disturbed by continual 
coughing, that I am unable to write 
without stopping frequently to re- 
collect myself. — This however is one 
of the common evils which must be 

borne with bodily pain does not 

touch the heart, though it fatigues 
the spirits. 

Still as you talk of your return, 
even in February, doubtingly, I have 
determined, the moment the weather 
changes, to wean my child. — It is too 
soon for her to begin to divide 
sorrow ! — And as one has well said, 
"despair is a freeman," we will go 
and seek our fortune together. 

This is riot a caprice of the moment 
— for your absence has given new 



76 LETTERS 

weight to some conclusions, that I 
was very reluctantly forming before 
you left me. — I do not chuse to be 
a secondary object. — If your feelings 
were in unison with mine, you would 
not sacrifice so much to visionary 
prospects of future advantage. 

Mary. 

LETTER XXXIII 

[Paris] Jan. 15 [1795]. 

I WAS just going to begin my 
letter with the fag end of a song, 
which would only have told you, 
what I may as well say simply, that 
it is pleasant to forgive those we love. 
I have received your two letters, 
dated the 26th and 28th of December, 
and my anger died away. You can 
scarcely conceive the effect some of 
your letters have produced on me. 
After longing to hear from you 
during a tedious interval of suspense, 
I have seen a superscription written 
by you. — Promising myself pleasure, 



TO IMLAY 77 

and feeling emotion, I have laid it by 
me, till the person who brought it, 
left the room — when, behold ! on 
opening it, I have found only half a 
dozen hasty lines, that have damped 
all the rising affection of my soul. 
Well, now for business — 

^ ^ ^ ^ il& 

TT* ^ ^ ^ ^ 

My animal is well ; I have not yet 
taught her to eat, but nature is doing 
the business. I gave her a crust to 
assist the cutting of her teeth ; and 
now she has two, she makes good use 
of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &;c. 
You would laugh to see her ; she is 
just like a little squirrel ; she will 
guard a crust for two hours ; and, 
after fixing her eye on an object for 
some time, dart on it with an aim as 
sure as a bird of prey — nothing can 
equal her life and spirits. I suffer 
from a cold ; but it does not affect 
her. Adieu ! do not forget to love 
us — and come soon to tell us that 
you do. 

Mary. 



78 LETTERS 

LETTER XXXIV 

[Pans] Jan. 30 [1795]. 

From the purport of your last 
letters, I should suppose that this 
will scarcely reach you ; and I have 
already written so many letters, that 
you have either not received, or 
neglected to acknowledge, I do not 
find it pleasant, or rather I have no 
inclination, to go over the same 
ground again. If you have received 
them, and are still detained by new 
projects, it is useless for me to say 
any more on the subject. I have 
done with it for ever ; yet I ought 
to remind you that your pecuniary 
interest suffers by your absence. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

For my part, my head is turned 
giddy, by only hearing of plans to 
make money, and my contemptuous 
feelings have sometimes burst out. 
I therefore was glad that a violent 
cold gave me a pretext to stay at 



TO IMLAY 79 

home, lest I should have uttered un- 
seasonable truths. 

My child is well, and the spring 
will perhaps restore me to myself. — 
I have endured many inconveniences 
this winter, which should I be 
ashamed to mention, if they had 
been unavoidable. "The secondary 
pleasures of life," you say, " are very 
necessary to my comfort : " it may 
be so ; but I have ever considered 
them as secondary. If therefore you 
accuse me of wanting the resolution 
necessary to bear the common ^ evils 
of life ; I should answer, that I have 
not fashioned my mind to sustain 
them, because I would avoid them, 
cost what it would 

Adieu! 

Mary. 

^ This probably alludes to some expression of 
[Imlay] the person to whom the letters are addressed, 
in which he treated as common evils^ things upon 
which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a 
diiFerent appellation. — W. G. 



80 LETTERS 

LETTER XXXV 

[Paris] February 9 [1795]. 

The melancholy presentiment has 
for some time hung on my spirits, 
that we were parted for ever ; and 
the letters I received this day, by 

Mr. , convince me that it was 

not without foundation. You allude 
to some other letters, which I suppose 
have miscarried ; for most of those 
I have got, were only a few hasty 
lines, calculated to wound the tender- 
ness the sight of the superscriptions 
excited. 

I mean not however to complain ; 
yet so many feelings are struggling 
for utterance, and agitating a heart 
almost bursting with anguish, that I 
find it very difficult to write with 
any degree of coherence. 

You left me indisposed, though 
you have taken no notice of it ; and 
the most fatiguing journey I ever 
had, contributed to continue it. How- 



TO IMLAY 81 

ever, I recovered my health ; but a 
neglected cold, and continual in- 
quietude during the last two months, 
have reduced me to a state of weak- 
ness I never before experienced. 
Those who did not know that the 
canker-worm was at work at the core, 
cautioned me about suckling my 
child too long. — God preserve this 
poor child, and render her happier 
than her mother ! 

But I am wandering from my 
subject : indeed my head turns giddy, 
when I think that all the confidence 
I have had in the affection of others 
is come to this. — I did not expect 
this blow from you. I have done 
my duty to you and my child ; and 
if I am not to have any return of 
affection to reward me, I have 
the sad consolation of knowing that 
I deserved a better fate. My soul 
is weary — I am sick at heart ; and, 
but for this little darling, I would 
cease to care about a life, which is 
now stripped of every charm. 

6 



82 LETTERS 

You see how stupid I am, uttering 
declamation, when I meant simply 
to tell you, that I consider your 
requesting me to come to you, as 
merely dictated by honour. — Indeed, 
I scarcely understand you. — You 
request me to come, and then tell 
me, that you have not given up all 
thoughts of returning to this place. 

When I determined to live with 
you, I was only governed by aiFection. 
— I would share poverty with you, 
but I turn with affright from the sea 
of trouble on which you are entering. 
— I have certain principles of action : 
I know what I look for to found my 
happiness on. — It is not money. — 
With you I wished for sufficient to 
procure the comforts of life — as it 
is, less will do. — I can still exert 
myself to obtain the necessaries of 
life for my child, and she does not 
want more at present. — I have two 
or three plans in my head to earn 
our subsistence ; for do not suppose 
that, neglected by you, I will lie 



TO IMLAY 83 

under obligations of a pecuniary kind 
to you ! — No ; I would sooner submit 
to menial service. — I wanted the 
support of your affection — that gone, 
all is over ! — I did not think, when 

I complained of 's contemptible 

avidity to accumulate money, that 
he would have dragged you into his 
schemes. 

I cannot write. — I inclose a frag- 
ment of a letter, written soon after 
your departure, and another which 
tenderness made me keep back when 
it was written. — -You will see then 
the sentiments of a calmer, though 
not a more determined, moment. — 
Do not insult me by saying, that 
"our being together is paramount 
to every other consideration ! " Were 
it, you would not be running after 
a bubble, at the expence of my peace 
of mind. 

Perhaps this is the last letter you 
will ever receive from me. 

Mary. 



84 LETTERS 

LETTER XXXVI 

[Paris] Feb, 10 [1795]. 

You talk of " permanent views 
and future comfort " — not for me, 
for I am dead to hope. The in- 
quietudes of the last winter have 
finished the business, and my heart 
is not only broken, but my constitu- 
tion destroyed. 1 conceive myself 
in a galloping consumption, and the 
continual anxiety I feel at the 
thought of leaving my child, feeds 
the fever that nightly devours me. 
It is on her account that I again 
write to you, to conjure you, by all 
that you hold sacred, to leave her 
here with the German lady you may 
have heard me mention ! She has 
a child of the same age, and they 
may be brought up together, as I 
wish her to be brought up. I shall 
write more fully on the subject. To 
facilitate this, I shall give up my 
present lodgings, and go into the 



TO IMLAY 85 

same house. I can live much 
cheaper there, which is now be- 
come an object. I have had 3000 

Hvres from , and I shall take 

one more, to pay my servant's wages, 
&c. and then 1 shall endeavour to 
procure what I want by my own 
exertions. I shall entirely give up 
the acquaintance of the Americans. 

and I have not been on good 

terms a long time. Yesterday he 
very unmanlily exulted over me, on 
account of your determination to 
stay. I had provoked it, it is true, 
by some asperities against commerce, 
which have dropped from me, when 
we have argued about the propriety 
of your remaining where you are ; 
and it is no matter, I have drunk too 
deep of the bitter cup to care about 
trifles. 

When you first entered into these 
plans, you bounded your views to 
the gaining of a thousand pounds. 
It was sufficient to have procured a 
farm in America, which would have 



86 LETTERS 

been an independence. You find 
now that you did not know yourself, 
and that a certain situation in Ufe is 
more necessary to you than you 
imagined — more necessary than an 
uncorrupted heart — For a year or 
two, you may procure yourself what 
you call pleasure ; eating, drinking, 
and women ; but in the solitude of 
declining life, I shall be remembered 
with regret — I was going to say with 
remorse, but checked my pen. 

As I have never concealed the 
nature of my connection with you, 
your reputation will not suffer. I 
shall never have a confident : I am 
content with the approbation of my 
own mind ; and, if there be a searcher 
of hearts, mine will not be despised. 
Reading what you have written 
relative to the desertion of women, 
1 have often wondered how theory 
and practice could be so different, 
till I recollected, that the sentiments 
of passion, and the resolves of reason, 
are very distinct. As to my sisters. 



TO IMLAY 87 

as you are so continually hurried 
with business, you need not write 
to them — I shall, when my mind is 
calmer. God bless you ! Adieu ! 

Mary. 

This has been such a period of 
barbarity and misery, I ought not 
to complain of having my share. I 
wish one moment that I had never 
heard of the cruelties that have been 
practised here, and the next envy 
the mothers who have been killed 
with their children. Surely I had 
suffered enough in life, not to be 
cursed with a fondness, that burns, 
up the vital stream I am imparting. 
You will think me mad : I would 
I were so, that I could forget my 
misery — so that my head or heart 
would be still. 

LETTER XXXVII 

[Paris] Feb. 19 [1795]. 

When I first received your letter, 
putting off your return to an indefi- 



88 LETTERS 

nite time, I felt so hurt, that I know 
not what I wrote. I am now calmer, 
though it was not the kind of wound 
over which time has the quickest 
effect ; on the contrary, the more I 
think, the sadder I grow. Society 
fatigues me inexpressibly — So much 
so, that finding fault with every one, 
I have only reason enough, to dis- 
cover that the fault is in myself. 
My child alone interests me, and, 
but for her, I should not take any 
pains to recover my health. 

As it is, I shall wean her, and try 
if by that step (to which I feel a 
repugnance, for it is my only solace) 
I can get rid of my cough. Physi- 
cians talk much of the danger attend- 
ing any complaint on the lungs, after 
a woman has suckled for some months. 
They lay a stress also on the necessity 
of keeping the mind tranquil — and, 
my God ! how has mine be harrassed ! 
But whilst the caprices of other 
women are gratified, " the wind of 
heaven not suffered to visit them 



TO IMLAY 89 

too rudely," I have not found a 
guardian angel, in heaven or on 
earth, to ward off sorrow or care from 
my bosom. 

What sacrifices have you not made 
for a woman you did not respect ! — 
But I will not go over this ground — 
I want to tell you that 1 do not 
understand you. You say that you 
have not given up all thoughts of 
returning here — and I know that it 
will be necessary — nay, is. I cannot 
explain myself; but if you have not 
lost your memory, you will easily 
divine my meaning. What ! is our 
life then only to be made up of 
separations ? and am I only to 
return to a country, that has not 
merely lost all charms for me, but 
for which 1 feel a repugnance that 
almost amounts to horror, only to be 
left there a prey to it ! 

Why is it so necessary that I 
should return ? — brought up here, 
my girl would be freer. Indeed, 
expecting you to join us, I had formed 



90 LETTERS 

some plans of usefulness that have 
now vanished with my hopes of 
happiness. 

In the bitterness of my heart, I 
could complain with reason, that I 
am left here dependent on a man, 
whose avidity to acquire a fortune 
has rendered him callous to every 
sentiment connected with social or 
affectionate emotions. ^ — With a brutal 
insensibility, he cannot help dis- 
playing the pleasure your determina- 
tion to stay gives him, in spite of 
the effect it is visible it has had 
on me. 

Till I can earn money, I shaR 
endeavour to borrow some, for I 
want to avoid asking him continually 
for the sum necessary to maintain 
me. — Do not mistake me, I have 
never been refused. — Yet I have gone 
half a dozen times to the house to 
ask for it, and come away without 

speaking you must guess why — 

Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of 
the eternal projects to which you 



TO IMLAY 91 

have sacrificed my peace — not re- 
membering — but I will be silent for 
ever. 

LETTER XXXVITI 

[Havre] April 7 [1795]. 

Here I am at Havre, on the wing 
towards you, and I write now, only 
to tell you, that you may expect me 
in the course of three or four days ; 
for I shall not attempt to give vent 
to the different emotions which 
agitate my heart — You may term a 
feeling, which appears to me to be 
a degree of delicacy that naturally 
arises from sensibility, pride — Still 
I cannot indulge the very affec- 
tionate tenderness which glows in 
my bosom, without trembling, till I 
see, by your eyes, that it is mutual. 

I sit, lost in thought, looking at 
the sea — and tears rush into my eyes, 
when I find that I am cherishing 
any fond expectations. — I have in- 
deed been so unhappy this winter. 



92 LETTERS 

I find it as difficult to acquire fresh 
hopes, as to regain tranquillity. — 
Enough of this — lie still, foolish 
heart ! — But for the little girl, I 
could almost wish that it should 
cease to beat, to be no more aUve 
to the anguish of disappointment. 

Sweet little creature ! I deprived 
myself of my only pleasure, when 
I weaned her, about ten days 
ago. — I am however glad I con- 
quered my repugnance. — It was 
necessary it should be done soon, 
and I did not wish to embitter the 
renewal of your acquaintance with 
her, by putting it off till we met. — 
It was a painful exertion to me, and 
I thought it best to throw this in- 
quietude with the rest, into the sack 
that I would fain throw over my 
shoulder. — 1 wished to endure it 
alone, in short — Yet, after sending 
her to sleep in the next room for 
three or four nights, you cannot 
think with what joy I took her back 
again to sleep in my bosom ! 



TO IMLAY 9S 

I suppose I shall find you, when I 
arrive, for I do not see any necessity 
for your coming to me. — Pray in- 
form Mr. , that I have his little 

friend with me. — My wishing to 
oblige him, made me put myself to 

some inconvenience and delay 

my departure ; which was irksome 
to me, who have not quite as much 
philosophy, I would not for the world 
say indifference, as you. God bless 
you ! 

Yours truly 

Mary. 

LETTER XXXIX 

Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11 [1795]. 

Here we are, my love, and mean 
to set out early in the morning ; and, 
if I can find you, I hope to dine with 
you to-morrow. — I shall drive to 

's hotel, where tells me 

you have been — and, if you have 
left it, I hope you will take care to 
be there to receive us. 



94 LETTERS 

I have brought with me Mr. 's 

little friend, and a girl whom I like 
to take care of our little darling— not 
on the way, for that fell to my share. 
— But why do 1 write about trifles ? — 
or any thing ? — Are we not to meet 
soon ? — What does your heart say ? 

Yours truly 

Mary. 

I have weaned my Fanny, and she 
is now eating away at the white bread. 



LETTER XL 

[26 Charlotte Street^ Rathhone Place] 
London^ Friday^ May 22 [1795]. 

, I HAVE just received your aifec- 
tionate letter, and am distressed to 
think that I have added to your 
embarrassments at this troublesome 
juncture, when the exertion of all 
the faculties of your mind appears 
to be necessary, to extricate you out 
of your pecuniary difficulties. I sup- 
pose it was something relative to the 



TO IMLAY 95 

circumstance you have mentioned, 

which made request to see 

me to-day, to converse about a 
matter of great importance. Be that 
as it may, his letter (such is the state 
of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed 
me, and rendered the last night as dis- 
tressing, as the two former had been. 

1 have laboured to calm my mind 
since you left me — Still I find that 
tranquillity is not to be obtained by 
exertion ; it is a feeling so different 
from the resignation of despair ! — I 
am however no longer angry with 
you — nor will I ever utter another 
complaint — there are arguments 
which convince the reason, whilst 
they carry death to the heart. — We 
have had too many cruel explanations, 
that not only cloud every future 
prospect ; but embitter the remem- 
brances which alone give life to 
affection. — Let the subject never be 
revived ! 

It seems to me that I have not 
only lost the hope, but the power of 



96 LETTERS 

being happy. — Every emotion is now 
sharpened by anguish. — My soul has 
been shook, and my tone of feehngs 
destroyed. — I have gone out — and 
sought for dissipation, if not amuse- 
ment, merely to fatigue still more, I 
find, my irritable nerves 

My friend — my dear friend — exa- 
mine yourself well — I am out of the 
question ; for, alas ! I am nothing — 
and discover what you wish to do — 
what will render you most comfortable 
— or, to be more explicit — whether 
you desire to live with me, or part 
for ever ? When you can once ascer- 
tain it, tell me frankly, I conjure 
you ! — for, believe me, I have very 
involuntarily interrupted your peace. 

I shall expect you to dinner on 
Monday, and will endeavour to as- 
sume a cheerful face to greet you — 
at any rate 1 will avoid conversations, 
which only tend to harrass your feel- 
ings, because I am most affectionately 
yours, 

Mary. 



TO IMLAY 97 

LETTER XLI 

{May n, 1795] Wed^iesday. 

I INCLOSE you the letter, which 
you desired me to forward, and I am 
tempted very laconically to wish you 
a good morning— not because I am 
ang-ry, or have nothing to say; but 
to keep down a wounded spirit.— I 
shall make every effort to calm my 
mmd—yet a strong conviction seems 
to whirl round in the very centre of 
my bram, which, like the fiat of fate 
emphaticaUy assures me, that ^rief 
has a firm hold of my heart. 
God bless you ! 

Yours sincerely, 

Mary. 

LETTER XLII 

[Hull] Wednesday, Two o'Cloch 
[May 27, 1795]. 

We arrived here about an hour 
ago. I am extremely fatigued with 



98 LETTERS 

the child, who would not rest quiet 
with any body but me, during the 
night — and now we are here in a 
comfortless, damp room, in a sort of 
a tomb-like house. This however I 
shall quickly remedy, for, when I 
have finished this letter, (which I must 
do immediately, because the post goes 
out early), I shall sally forth, and 
enquire about a vessel and an inn. 

I will not distress you by talking 
of the depression of my spirits, or 
the struggle I had to keep alive my 
dying heart. — It is even now too full 
to allow me to write with composure. 
— Imlay, — dearlmlay, — am 1 always 
to be tossed about thus ? — shall I 
never find an asylum to rest contented 
in ? How can you love to fly about 
continually — dropping down, as it 
w^ere, in a new world — cold and 
strange ! — every other day ? Why 
do you not attach those tender 
emotions round the idea of home, 
which even now dim my eyes ? — 
This alone is affection — every thing 



TO IMLAY 99 

else is only humanity, electrified by 
sympathy. 

I will write to you again to-morrow, 
when I know how long I am to be 
detained — and hope to get a letter 
quickly from you, to cheer yours 
sincerely and affectionately 

Mary. 

Fanny is playing near me in high 
spirits. She was so pleased with the 
noise of the mail-horn, she has been 
continually imitating it. Adieu ! 

LETTER XLIII 

[Hull, May 28, 1795] Thursday. 

A LADY has just sent to offer to 
take me to Beverley. I have then 
only a moment to exclaim against 
the vague manner in which people 
give information 

***** 

But why talk of inconveniences, 
which are in fact trifling, when 
compared with the sinking of the 



100 LETTERS 

heart I have felt ! I did not intend 
to touch this painful string — God 
bless you ! 

Yours truly, 

Mary. 

LETTER XLIV 

[Hull] Friday, June 12 [1795]. 

I HAVE just received yours dated 
the 9th, which I suppose was a 
mistake, for it could scarcely have 
loitered so long on the road. The 
general observations which apply to 
the state of your own mind, appear 
to me just, as far as they go ; and I 
shall always consider it as one of the 
most serious misfortunes of my life, 
that I did not meet you, before satiety 
had rendered your senses so fastidious, 
as almost to close up every tender 
avenue of sentiment and affection 
that leads to your sympathetic heart. 
You have a heart, my friend, yet, 
hurried away by the impetuosity of 
inferior feelings, you have sought in 



TO IMLAY 101 

vulgar excesses, for that gratification 
which only the heart can bestow. 

The common run of men, I know, 
with strong health and gross appetites, 
must have variety to banish ennui, 
because the imagination never lends 
its magic wand, to convert appetite 
into love, cemented by according 
reason. — Ah ! my friend, you know 
not the ineffable delight, the exquisite 
pleasure, which arises from a unison 
of affection and desire, when the 
whole soul and senses are abandoned 
to a lively imagination, that renders 
every emotion delicate and rapturous. 
Yes ; these are emotions, over which 
satiety has no power, and the re- 
collection of which, even disappoint- 
ment cannot disenchant ; but they 
do not exist without self-deniaL 
These emotions, more or less strong, 
appear to me to be the distinctive 
characteristic of genius, the foundation 
of taste, and of that exquisite relish 
for the beauties of nature, of which 
the common herd of eaters and 



102 LETTERS 

drinkers and child-beget ers, certainly 
have no idea. You will smile at an 
observation that has just occurred to 
me : — I consider those minds as the 
most strong and original, whose 
imagination acts as the stimulus to 
their senses. 

Well ! you will ask, what is the 
result of all this reasoning ? Why I 
cannot help thinking that it is possible 
for you, having great strength of 
mind, to return to nature, and regain 
a sanity of constitution, and purity of 
feeling — which would open your heart 
to me. — I would fain rest there ! 

Yet, convinced more than ever of 
the sincerity and tenderness of my 
attachment to you, the involuntary 
hopes, which a determination to live 
has revived, are not sufficiently strong 
to dissipate the cloud, that despair 
has spread over futurity. I have 
looked at the sea, and at my child, 
hardly daring to own to myself the 
secret wish, that it might become our 
tomb ; and that the heart, still so 



TO IMLAY 103 

alive to anguish, might there be 
quieted by death. At this moment 
ten thousand comphcated sentiments 
press for utterance, weigh on my 
heart, and obscure my sight. 

Are we ever to meet again ? and 
will you endeavour to render that 
meeting happier than the last ? Will 
you endeavour to restrain your 
caprices, in order to give vigour to 
affection, and to give play to the 
checked sentiments that nature in- 
tended should expand your heart ? 
I cannot indeed, without agony, think 
of your bosom's being continually 
contaminated ; and bitter are the 
tears which exhaust my eyes, when 
I recollect why my child and I are 
forced to stray from the asylum, in 
which, after so many storms, I had 
hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate. 
— These are not common sorrows ; 
nor can you perhaps conceive, how 
much active fortitude it requires to 
labour perpetually to blunt the shafts 
of disappointment. 



104 LETTERS 

Examine now yourself, and ascer- 
tain whether you can hve in some- 
thing hke a settled stile. Let our 
confidence in future be unbounded ; 
consider whether you find it necessary 
to sacrifice me to what you term 
" the zest of life ; " and, when you 
have once a clear view of your own 
motives, of your own incentive to 
action, do not deceive me ! 

The train of thoughts which the 
writing of this epistle awoke, makes 
me so wretched, that I must take a 
walk, to rouse and calm my mind. 
But first, let me tell you, that, if 
you really wish to promote my 
happiness, you will endeavour to give 
me as much as you can of yourself. 
You have great mental energy ; and 
your judgment seems to me so 
just, that it is only the dupe of 
your inclination in discussing one 
subject. 

The post does not go out to-day. 
To-morrow I may write more tran- 
quilly. I cannot yet say when the 



TO IMLAY 105 

vessel will sail in which I have de- 
termined to depart. 

\_Hull, June 13, 1795] 
Saturday Morning. 

YouTi second letter reached me 
about an hour ago. You were 
certainly wrong, in supposing that I 
did not mention you with respect ; 
though, without my being conscious 
of it, some sparks of resentment may 
have animated the gloom of despair 
— Yes ; with less affection, I should 
have been more respectful. How- 
ever the regard which I have for you, 
is so unequivocal to myself, I imagine 
that it must be sufficiently obvious 
to every body else. Besides, the only 
letter I intended for the public eye 

was to , and that I destroyed 

from delicacy before you saw them, 
because it was only written (of course 
warmly in your praise) to prevent 
any odium being thrown on you. ^ 

^ This passage refers to letters written under 
a purpose of suicide^ and not intended to be 
opened till after the catastrophe. — W. G. 



106 LETTERS 

I am harrassed by your embarrass- 
ments, and shall certainly use all my 
efforts, to make the business ter- 
minate to your satisfaction in which 
I am engaged. 

My friend — my dearest friend — I 
feel my fate united to yours by the 
most sacred principles of my soul, 
and the yearns of — yes, I will say it 
— a true, unsophisticated heart. 
Yours most truly 

Mary. 

If the wind be fair, the captain 
talks of sailing on Monday ; but I 
am afraid I shall be detained some 
days longer. At any rate, continue 
to write, (I want this support) till 
you are sure I am where I cannot 
expect a letter ; and, if any should 
arrive after my departure, a gentle- 
man (not Mr. 's friend, I promise 

you) from whom I have received 
great civilities, will send them after 
me. 

Do write by every occasion ! I 



TO IMLAY 107 

am anxious to hear how your affairs 
go on ; and, still more, to be con- 
vinced that you are not separating 
yourself from us. For my little 
darling is calling papa, and adding 
her parrot word — Come, Come! And 
will you not come, and let us exert 
ourselves ? — I shall recover all my 
energy, when I am convinced that 
my exertions will draw us more 
closely together. Once more adieu ! 

LETTER XLV 

[Hull] Sunday, June 14 [1795]. 

I EATHER expected to hear from 
you to-day — I wish you would not 
fail to write to me for a little time, 
because I am not quite well — 
Whether I have any good sleep or 
not, I wake in the morning in violent 
fits of trembling — and, in spite of all 
my efforts, the child — every thing — 
fatigues me, in which I seek for 
solace or amusement. 

Mr. forced on me a letter 



108 LETTERS 

to a physician of this place ; it was 
fortunate, for I should otherwise 
have had some difficulty to obtain 
the necessary information. His wife 
is a pretty woman (I can admire, you 
know, a pretty woman, when I am 
alone) and he an intelligent and 
rather interesting man. — They have 
behaved to me with great hospitality; 
and poor Fanny was never so happy in 
her life, as amongst their young brood. 
They took me in their carriage to 
Beverley, and I ran over my favourite 
walks, with a vivacity that would 
have astonished you. — The town did 
not please me quite so well as 
formerly — It appeared so diminutive ; 
and, when I found that many of the 
inhabitants had lived in the same 
houses ever since I left it, I could 
not help wondering how they could 
thus have vegetated, whilst I was 
running over a world of sorrow, 
snatching at pleasure, and throwing 
off prejudices. The place where I 
at present am, is much improved ; 



TO IMLAY 109 

but it is astonishing what strides 
aristocracy and fanaticism have made^ 
since I resided in this country. 

The wind does not appear inchned 
to change, so I am still forced to 
linger — When do you think that you 
shall be able to set out for France ? 
I do not entirely like the aspect of 
your affairs, and still less your con- 
nections on either side of the water. 
Often do I sigh, when I think of 
your entanglements in business, and 
your extreme restlessness of mind. — 
Even now I am almost afraid to ask 
you, whether the pleasure of being 
free, does not overbalance the pain you 
felt at parting with me ? Sometimes 
I indulge the hope that you will feel 
me necessary to you — or why should 
we meet again ? — but, the moment 
after, despair damps my rising spirits, 
aggravated by the emotions of 
tenderness, which ought to soften 

the cares of life. God bless you ! 

Yours sincerely and affectionately 

Mary. 



110 LETTERS 

LETTER XLVI 

[Hull] June 15 [1795]. 

I WANT to know how you have 

settled with respect to . In 

short, be very particular in your ac- 
count of all your affairs — let our con- 
fidence, my dear, be unbounded. — 
The last time we were separated, was 
a separation indeed on your part — 
Now you have acted more ingenu- 
ously, let the most affectionate inter- 
change of sentiments fill up the 
aching void of disappointment. I 
almost dread that your plans will 
prove abortive — yet should the most 
unlucky turn send you home to us, 
convinced that a true friend is a 
treasure, I should not much mind 
having to struggle with the world 
again. Accuse me not of pride — ^yet 
sometimes, when nature has opened 
my heart to its author, I have 
wondered that you did not set a 
higher value on my heart. 



TO IMLAY 111 

Receive a kiss from Fanny, I was 
going to add, if you will not take 
one from me, and believe me yours 

Sincerely 

Mary. 

The wind still continues in the 
same quarter. 

LETTER XLVII 

[Hull., June, 1795] Tuesday Morning, 

The captain has just sent to in- 
form me, that 1 must be on board 
in the course of a few hours. — I 
wished to have stayed till to-morrow. 
It would have been a comfort to me 
to have received another letter from 
you — Should one arrive, it will be 
sent after me. 

My spirits are agitated, I scarcely 

know why The quitting England 

seems to be a fresh parting. — Surely 
you will not forget me. — A thousand 
weak forebodings assault my soul, 
and the state of my health renders 



112 LETTERS 

me sensible to every thing. It is 
surprising that in London, in a con- 
tinual conflict of mind, I was still 
growing better — whilst here, bowed 
down by the despotic hand of fate, 
forced into resignation by despair, I 
seem to be fading away — perishing 
beneath a cruel blight, that withers 
up all my faculties. 

The child is perfectly well. My 
hand seems unwilling to add adieu ! 
I know not why this inexpressible 
sadness has taken possession of me. 
— It is not a presentiment of ill. 
Yet, having been so perpetually the 
sport of disappointment, — having a 
heart that has been as it were a mark 
for misery, I dread to meet wretched- 
ness in some new shape. — Well, let 
it come — I care not ! — what have I 
to dread, who have so little to hope 
for ! God bless you — I am most 
affectionately and sincerely yours 

Mary. 



TO IMLAY 113 

LETTER XLVIII 

[June 17, 1795] Wednesday/ Morning. 

I WAS hurried on board yesterday 
about three o'clock, the wind having 
changed. But before evening it 
veered round to the old point ; and 
here we are, in the midst of mists 
and water, only taking advantage of 
the tide to advance a few miles. 

You will scarcely suppose that I 
left the town with reluctance — yet 
it was even so — for I wished to 
receive another letter from you, and 
I felt pain at parting, for ever per- 
haps, from the amiable family, who 
had treated me with so much hos- 
pitality and kindness. They will 
probably send me your letter, if it 
arrives this morning ; for here we 
are likely to remain, I am afraid to 
think how long. 

The vessel is very commodious^ 
and the captain a civil, open-hearted 
kind of man. There being no other 

8 



114 LETTERS 

passengers, I have the cabin to my- 
self, which is pleasant ; and I have 
brought a few books with me to 
beguile weariness ; but I seem in- 
clined, rather to employ the dead 
moments of suspence in writing some 
effusions, than in reading. 

What are you about? How are 
your affairs going on ? It may be a 
long time before you answer these 
questions. My dear friend, my heart 
sinks within me ! — Why am I forced 
thus to struggle continually with my 
affections and feelings ? — Ah ! why 
are those affections and feelings the 
source of so much misery, when they 
seem to have been given to vivify 
my heart, and extend my usefulness ! 
But I must not dwell on this subject. 
— Will you not endeavour to cherish 
all the affection you can for me ? 
What am I saying? — Rather forget 
me, if you can — if other gratifications 
are dearer to you. — How is every 
remembrance of mine embittered by 
disappointment ? What a world is 



TO IMLAY 115 

this ! — They only seem happy, who 
never look beyond sensual or artificial 
enjoyments. — Adieu ! 

Fanny begins to play with the 
cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark. — 
I will labour to be tranquil ; and am 
in every mood, 

Yours sincerely 

Mary. 

LETTER XLIX 

[June 18, 1795] Thursday. 

Here I am still — and I have just 
received your letter of Monday by 
the pilot, who promised to bring it 
to me, if we were detained, as he 
expected, by the wind. — It is indeed 
wearisome to be thus tossed about 
without going forward. — I have a 
violent headache — yet I am obliged 
to take care of the child, who is a 
little tormented by her teeth, because 

' is unable to do any thing, she 

is rendered so sick by the motion of 
the ship, as we ride at anchor. 



116 LETTERS 

These are however trifling incon- 
veniences, compared with anguish of 
mind — compared with the sinking of 
a broken heart. — To tell you the 
truth, 1 never suffered in my life so 
much from depression of spirits — 
from despair. — I do not sleep — or, if 
I close my eyes, it is to have the 
most terrifying dreams, in which I 
often meet you with different casts of 
countenance. 

I will not, my dear Imlay, torment 
you by dwelling on my sufferings — 
and will use all my efforts to calm 
my mind, instead of deadening it — 
at present it is most painfully active, 
I find 1 am not equal to these con- 
tinual struggles — yet your letter this 
morning has afforded me some 
comfort — and I will try to revive 
hope. One thing let me tell you — 
when we meet again — surely we are 
to meet ! — it must be to part no 
more. I mean not to have seas 
between us — it is more than I can 
support. 



TO IMLAY 117 

The pilot is hurrying me — God 
bless you. 

In spite of the commodiousness of 
the vessel, every thing here would 
disgust my senses, had I nothing else 
to think of — " When the mind's free, 
the body's delicate ; "—mine has been 
too much hurt to regard trifles. 
Yours most truly 

Mary. 

LETTER L 

[June 20, 1795] Saturday/, 

This is the fifth dreary day I have 
been imprisoned by the wind, with 
every outward object to disgust the 
senses, and unable to banish the re- 
membrances that sadden my heart. 

How am I altered by disappoint- 
ment ! — When going to Lisbon, ten 
years ago, the elasticity of my mind 
was sufficient to ward off weariness — 
and the imagination still could dip 
her brush in the rainbow of fancy, 
-and sketch futurity in smiling colours. 



118 LETTERS 

Now I am going towards the North 
in search of sunbeams ! — Will any 
ever warm this desolated heart ? All 
nature seems to frown — or rather 
mourn with me. — Every thing is cold 
— cold as my expectations ! Before 
I left the shore, tormented, as I now 
am, by these North east chillers^ I 
could not help exclaiming — Give me, 
gracious Heaven ! at least, genial 
weather, if I am never to meet the 
genial affection that still warms this 
agitated bosom — compelling hfe to 
linger there. 

I am now going on shore with the 
captain, though the weather be rough, 
to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, 
and to take a walk — after which I 
hope to sleep — for, confined here, 
surrounded by disagreeable smells, f 
have lost the little appetite I had ; 
and I lie awake, till thinking almost 
drives me to the brink of madness — 
only to the brink, for I never forget, 
even in the feverish slumbers I some- 
times fall into, the misery I am 



TO IMLAY 119 

labouring to blunt the sense of, by 
every exertion in my power. 

Poor still continues sick, 

and grows weary when the 

weather will not allow her to remain 
on deck. 

I hope this will be the last letter 
I shall write from England to you — 
are you not tired of this lingering 
adieu ? 

Yours truly 

Mary. 

LETTER LI 

[Hull^ June 21, 1795] Sunday Morning. 

The captain last night, after I had 
written my letter to you intended to 
be left at a little village, offered to 

go to to pass to-day. We had 

a troublesome sail — and now I must 
hurry on board again, for the wind 
has changed. 

I half expected to find a letter 
from you here. Had you written 
one haphazard, it would have been 



120 LETTERS 

kind and considerate — you might 
have known, had you thought, that 
the wind would not permit me to 
depart. These are attentions, more 
grateful to the heart than offers of 
service — But why do I foolishly con- 
tinue to look for them ? 

Adieu ! adieu ! My friend — your 
friendship is very cold — you see I am 
hurt. — God bless you ! I may per- 
haps be, some time or other, inde- 
pendent in every sense of the word — 
Ah ! there is but one sense of it of 
consequence. I will break or bend 
this weak heart — yet even now it is 
full. 

Yours sincerely 

Maky. 

The child is well ; I did not leave 
her on board. 

LETTER LII 

[Gothenburg] June 27, Saturday^ [1795]. 

I ARRIVED in Gothenburg this after- 
noon, after vainly attempting to land 



TO IMLAY 121 

at Arendall. 1 have now but a 
moment, before the post goes out, 
to inform you we have got here ; 
though not without considerable 
difficulty, for we were set ashore in a 
boat above twenty miles below. 

What I suffered in the vessel 1 
will not now descant upon — nor 
mention the pleasure I received from 
the sight of the rocky coast. — This 
morning however, walking to join the 
carriage that was to transport us to 
this place, I fell, without any previous 
warning, senseless on the rocks — and 
how I escaped with life I can scarcely 
guess. I was in a stupour for a 
quarter of an hour ; the suffusion of 
blood at last restored me to my senses 
— the contusion is great, and my brain 
confused. The child is well. 

Twenty miles ride in the rain, after 
my accident, has sufficiently deranged 
me — and here I could not get a fire 
to warm me, or any thing warm to 
eat ; the inns are mere stables — 1 
must nevertheless go to bed. For 



122 LETTERS 

God's sake, let me hear from you 
immediately, my friend! I am not 
well, and yet you see I cannot die. 

Yours sincerely 
Mary. 

LETTER LIII 

[Gothenburg] June 29 [1795]. 

I WROTE to you by the last post> 
to inform you of my arrival; and I 
believe I alluded to the extreme 
fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing 

to 's illness, and the roughness 

of the weather — I likewise mentioned 
to you my fall, the effects of which 
I still feel, though I do not think it 
will have any serious consequences. 

will go with me, if I find it 

necessary to go to . The inns 

here are so bad, I was forced to 
accept of an apartment in his house. 
I am overwhelmed with civilities on 
all sides, and fatigued with the en- 
deavours to amuse me, from which I 
cannot escape. 



TO IMLAY 128 

My friend — my friend, I am not 
well — SL deadly weight of sorrow lies 
heavily on my heart. I am again 
tossed on the troubled billows of life ; 
and obliged to cope with diffi- 
culties, without being buoyed up 
by the hopes that alone render them 
bearable. " How flat, dull, and un- 
profitable," appears to me all the 
bustle into which I see people here 
so eagerly enter ! I long every night 
to go to bed, to hide my melancholy 
face in my pillow ; but there is a 
canker-worm in my bosom that never 
sleeps. 

Mary. 

LETTER LIV 

[Sweden] July 1 [1795]. 

I LABOUR in vain to calm my mind 
— my soul has been overwhelmed by 
sorrow and disappointment. Every 
thing fatigues me — this is a life that 
cannot last long. It is you who must 
determine with respect to futurity — 



124 LETTERS 

and, when you have, I will act accord- 
ingly — I mean, we must either resolve 
to live together, or part for ever, I 
cannot bear these continual struggles. 
— But I wish you to examine carefiiUy 
your own heart and mind ; and, if 
you perceive the least chance of being 
happier without me than with me, or 
if your inclination leans capriciously 
to that side, do not dissemble ; but 
tell me frankly that you will never 
see me more. I will then adopt the 
plan I mentioned to you — for we 
must either live together, or I will be 
entirely independent. 

My heart is so oppressed, I cannot 
write with precision — You know how- 
ever that what I so imperfectly ex- 
press, are not the crude sentiments of 
the moment — You can only contribute 
to my comfort (it is the consolation 
I am in need of) by being with me — 
and, if the tenderest friendship is of 
any value, why will you not look to 
me for a degree of satisfaction that 
heartless affections cannot bestow ? 



TO IMLAY 125 

Tell me then, will you determine 
to meet me at Basle ? — I shall, I 

should imagine, be at before 

the close of August ; and, after you 
settle your aiFairs at Paris, could we 
not meet there ? 
God bless you ! 

Yours truly 

Mary. 

Poor Fanny has suffered during 
the journey with her teeth. 



LETTER LV 

ISweden'] July 3 [1795]. 

There was a gloominess diffused 
through your last letter, the impres- 
sion of which still rests on my mind — 
though, recollecting how quickly you 
throw off the forcible feelings of the 
moment, I flatter myself it has long 
since given place to your usual cheer- 
fulness. 

Believe me (and my eyes fill with 
tears of tenderness as I assure you) 



126 LETTERS 

there is nothing I would not endure 
in the way of privation, rather than 
disturb your tranquilhty. — If 1 am 
fated to be unhappy, I will labour 
to hide my sorrows in my own bosom ; 
and you shall always find me a faith- 
ful, affectionate friend. 

I grow more and more attached 
to my little girl — and I cherish this 
affection without fear, because it 
must be a long time before it can 
become bitterness of soul.— She is an 
interesting creature. — On ship-board, 
how often as I gazed at the sea, have 
I longed to bury my troubled bosom 
in the less troubled deep ; asserting 
with Brutus, "that the virtue I had 
followed too far, was merely an 
empty name ! " and nothing but the 
sight of her — her playful smiles, 
which seemed to cling and twine 
round my heart — could have stopped 
me. 

What peculiar misery has fallen to 
my share ! To act up to my princi- 
ples, I have laid the strictest restraint 



TO IMLAY 127 

on my very thoughts — yes ; not to 
sully the delicacy of my feelings, I 
have reined in my imagination ; and 
started with affright from every sensa- 
tion, (I allude to ) that stealing 

with balmy sweetness into my soul, 
led me to scent from afar the fragrance 
of reviving nature. 

My friend, I have dearly paid for 
one conviction. — Love, in some minds, 
is an affair of sentiment, arising from 
the same delicacy of perception (or 
taste) as renders them alive to the 
beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive 
to the charms of those evanescent 
graces that are, as it were, impalpable 
— they must be felt, they cannot be 
described. 

Love is a want of my heart. I 
have examined myself lately with 
more care than formerly, and find, 
that to deaden is not to calm the 
mind — Aiming at tranquillity, I have 
almost destroyed all the energy of 
my soul — almost rooted out what 
renders it estimable — Yes, I have 



128 LETTERS 

damped that enthusiasm of character, 
which converts the grossest materials 
into a fuel, that imperceptibly feeds 
hopes, which aspire above common 
enjoyment. Despair, since the birth 
of my child, has rendered me stupid 
— soul and body seemed to be fading 
away before the withering touch of 
disappointment. 

I am now endeavouring to recover 
myself — and such is the elasticity of 
my constitution, and the purity of the 
atmosphere here, that health unsought 
for, begins to reanimate my counte- 
nance. 

I have the sincerest esteem and 
affection for you — but the desire of 
regaining peace, (do you understand 
me ?) has made me forget the respect 
due to my own emotions — sacred 
emotions, that are the sure harbingers 
of the delights I was formed to enjoy 
— and shall enjoy, for nothing can 
extinguish the heavenly spark. 

Still, when we meet again, I will 
not torment you, I promise you. I 



TO IMLAY 129 

blush when I recollect my former 
conduct — and will not in future con- 
found myself with the beings whom 
I feel to be my inferiors. — 1 will 
listen to delicacy, or pride. 

LETTER LVI 

[Sweden] July 4 [1795]. 

I HOPE to hear from you by to- 
morrow's mail. My dearest friend ! 
I cannot tear my affections from you 
— and, though every remembrance 
stings me to the soul, I think of you, 
till I make allowance for the very 
defects of character, that have given 
such a cruel stab to my peace. 

Still however I am more alive, 
than you have seen me for a long, 
long time. I have a degree of 
vivacity, even in my grief, which is 
preferable to the benumbing stupour 
that, for the last year, has frozen up 
aU my faculties. — Perhaps this change 
is more owing to returning health, 
than to the vigour of my reason — 

9 



130 LETTERS 

for, in spite of sadness (and surely 
I have had my share), the purity of 
this air, and the being continually 
out in it, for I sleep in the country 
every night, has made an alteration 
in my appearance that really surprises 
me. — The rosy fingers of health already 
streak my cheeks — and I have seen 
a physical life in my eyes, after I have 
been climbing the rocks, that re- 
sembled the fond, credulous hopes of 
youth. 

With what a cruel sigh have I 
recollected that I had forgotten to 
hope ! — Reason, or rather experience, 
does not thus cruelly damp poor 

's pleasures ; she plays all day 

in the garden with 's children, 

and makes friends for herself. 

Do not tell me, that you are happier 
without us — Will you not come to 
us in Switzerland ? Ah, why do not 
you love us with more sentiment ? — 
why are you a creature of such 
sympathy, that the warmth of your 
feelings, or rather quickness of your 



TO IMLAY 131 

senses, hardens your heart ? — It is my 
misfortune, that my imagination is 
perpetually shading your defects, and 
lending you charms, whilst the gross- 
ness of your senses makes you (call 
me not vain) overlook graces in me, 
that only dignity of mind, and the 
sensibility of an expanded heart can 
give. — God bless you ! Adieu. 

LETTER LVII 

[Sweden] July 7 [1795]. 

I COULD not help feeling extremely 
mortified last post, at not receiving 

a letter from you. My being at 

was but a chance, and you might have 
hazarded it ; and would a year ago. 

I shall not however complain — 
There are misfortunes so great, as to 
silence the usual expressions of sorrow 
— Believe me, there is such a thing 
as a broken heart ! There are characters 
whose very energy preys upon them ; 
and who, ever inclined to cherish by 
reflection some passion, cannot rest 



132 LETTERS 

satisfied with the common comforts 
of life. I have endeavoured to fly 
from myself and launched into all 
the dissipation possible here, only to 
feel keener anguish, when alone with 
my child. 

Still, could any thing please me — 
had not disappointment cut me off 
from life, this romantic country, these 
fine evenings, would interest me. — My 
God ! can any thing ? and am I ever 
to feel alive only to painful sensa- 
tions? — But it cannot — it shall not 
last long. 

The post is again arrived ; I have 
sent to seek for letters, only to be 
wounded to the soul by a negative. — 
My brain seems on fire. I must go 
into the air. 

Mary. 

LETTER LVIII 

[Laurvig, Norway] July 14 [1795], 

I AM now on my journey to Tons- 
berg. I felt more at leaving my child> 



TO IMLAY 133 

than I thought I should — and, whilst 
at night I imagined every instant that 
I heard the half-formed sounds of her 
voice, — I asked myself how I could 
think of parting with her for ever, of 
leaving her thus helpless ? 

Poor lamb ! It may run very well 
in a tale, that " God will temper the 
winds to the shorn lamb ! " but how 
can I expect that she will be shielded, 
when my naked bosom has had to 
brave continually the pitiless storm ? 
Yes ; I could add, with poor Lear — 
What is the war of elements to the 
pangs of disappointed affection, and 
the horror arising from a discovery 
of a breach of confidence, that snaps 
every social tie ! 

All is not right somewhere !— 
When you first knew me, I was not 
thus lost. I could still confide — for 
I opened my heart to you — of this 
only comfort you have deprived me, 
whilst my happiness, you tell me, 
was your first object. Strange want 
of judgment ! 



134 LETTERS 

I will not complain ; but, from the 
soundness of your understanding, I 
am convinced, if you give yourself 
leave to reflect, you will also feel, 
that your conduct to me, so far from 
being generous, has not been just. — I 
mean not to allude to factitious prin- 
ciples of morality ; but to the simple 
basis of all rectitude. — However I did 
not intend to argue — Your not wiiting 
is cruel — and my reason is perhaps 
disturbed by constant wretchedness. 

Poor would fain have ac- 
companied me, out of tenderness ; 
for my fainting, or rather convulsion, 
when I landed, and my sudden 
changes of countenance since, have 
alarmed her so much, that she is 
perpetually afraid of some accident. — 
But it would have injured the child 
this warm season, as she is cutting 
her teeth. 

I hear not of your having ^vritten to 
me at Stromstad. Very well ! Act as 
you please — there is nothing I fear or 
care for ! When I see whether I can. 



TO IMLAY 135 

or cannot obtain the money I am come 
here about, I will not trouble you 
with letters to which you do not reply. 

LETTER LIX 

[Tonsberg] July 18 [1795]. 

I AM here in Tonsberg, separated 
from my child — and here I must 
remain a month at least, or I might 
as well never have come. 

* * * * 

I have begun which will, I 

hope, discharge all my obligations 
of a pecuniary kind. — I am lowered 
in my own eyes, on account of my 
not having done it sooner. 

I shall make no further comments 
on your silence. God bless you ! 

Mary. 

LETTER LX 

\Tonsberg\ July 30 [1795]. 

I HAVE just received two of your 
letters, dated the 26th and 30th of 



136 LETTERS 

June ; and you must have received 
several from me, informing you of 
my detention, and how much I was 
hurt by your silence. 

Write to me then, my friend, and 
write explicitly. I have suffered, 
God knows, since I left you. Ah ! 
you have never felt this kind of 
sickness of heart ! — My mind how- 
ever is at present painfully active, 
and the sympathy I feel almost rises 
to agony. But this is not a subject 
of complaint, it has afforded me 
pleasure, — and reflected pleasure is all 
I have to hope for — if a spark of hope 
be yet alive in my forlorn bosom. 

I will try to write with a degree of 
composure. I wish for us to live 
together, because 1 want you to ac- 
quire an habitual tenderness for my 
poor girl. I cannot bear to think of 
leaving her alone in the world, or 
that she should only be protected by 
your sense of duty. Next to pre- 



TO IMLAY 137 

serving her, my most earnest wish is 
not to disturb your peace. I have 
nothing to expect, and httle to fear, 
in hfe — There are wounds that can 
never be healed — but they may be 
allowed to fester in silence without 
wincing. 

When we meet again, you shall be 
convinced that I have more resolution 
than you give me credit for. I will 
not torment you. If I am destined 
always to be disappointed and un- 
happy, I will conceal the anguish I 
cannot dissipate ; and the tightened 
cord of life or reason will at last 
snap, and set me free. 

Yes ; 1 shall be happy — This heart 
is w^orthy of the bliss its feelings an- 
ticipate — and I cannot even persuade 
myself, wretched as they have made 
me, that my principles and sentiments 
are not founded in nature and truth. 
But to have done with these subjects. 

I have been seriously employed in 



138 LETTERS 

this way since I came to Tonsberg ; 
yet I never was so much in the air. 
— I walk, I ride on horseback — row, 
bathe, and even sleep in the fields ; 
my health is consequently improved. 

The child, informs me, is well, 

I long to be with her. 

Write to me immediately — ^were 
I only to think of myself, I could 
wish you to return to me, poor, with 
the simplicity of character, part of 
which you seem lately to have lost, 
that first attached to you. 

Yours most affectionately 

Mary Imlay 

T have been subscribing other letters 
— so I mechanically did the same to 
yours. 

LETTER LXl 

[Tonsberg] August 5 [1795]. 

Employment and exercise have 
been of great service to me ; and I 
have entirely recovered the strength 
and activity I lost during the time 



TO IMLAY 139 

of my nursing. 1 have seldom been 
in better health ; and my mind, 
though trembling to the touch of 
anguish, is calmer — yet still the same. 
— ^I have, it is true, enjoyed some 
tranquillity, and more happiness here, 
than for a long — long time past. — (1 
say happiness, for I can give no other 
appellation to the exquisite delight 
this wild country and fine summer 
have afforded me.) — Still, on examin- 
ing my heart, 1 find that it is so 
constituted, I cannot live without 
some particular affection — I am afraid 
not without a passion — and 1 feel 
the want of it more in society, than 
in solitude. 

***** 

Writing to you, whenever an affec- 
tionate epithet occurs — my eyes fill 
with tears, and my trembling hand 
stops — you may then depend on my 
resolution, when with you. If I am 
doomed to be unhappy, I will con- 
fine my anguish in my own bosom — 



140 LETTERS 

tenderness, rather than passion, has 
made me sometimes overlook dehcacy 
— the same tenderness will in future 
restrain me. God bless you ! 

LETTER LXII 

[Tonsberg] August 7 [1795]. 

Am, exercise, and bathing, have 
restored me to health, braced my 
muscles, and covered my ribs, even 
whilst 1 have recovered my former 
activity. — I cannot tell you that my 
mind is calm, though I have snatched 
some moments of exquisite delight, 
wandering through the woods, and 
resting on the rocks. 

This state of suspense, my friend, 
is intolerable ; we must determine 
on something — and soon ; — we must 
meet shortly, or part for ever. I am 
sensible that I acted foolishly — but 
I was wretched — when we were 
together — Expecting too much, I let 
the pleasure I might have caught, 
slip from me. I cannot live with 



TO IMLAY 141 

you — I ought not — if you form an- 
other attachment. But I promise 
you, mine shall not be intruded on 
you. Little reason have I to expect 
a shadow of happiness, after the cruel 
disappointments that have rent my 
heart ; but that of my child seems 
to depend on our being together. 
Still I do not wish you to sacrifice 
a chance of enjoyment for an uncer- 
tain good. I feel a conviction, that 
I can provide for her, and it shall 
be my object— if we are indeed to 
part to meet no more. Her affection 
must not be divided. She must be 
a comfort to me — if I am to have 
no other — and only know me as her 
support. I feel that I cannot endure 
the anguish of corresponding with 
you — if we are only to correspond. — 
No ; if you seek for happiness else- 
where, my letters shall not interrupt 
your repose. I will be dead to you. 
1 cannot express to you what pain 
it gives me to write about an eternal 
separation. — You must determine — 



142 LETTERS 

examine yourself — But, for God's 
sake ! spare me the anxiety of un- 
certainty ! — I may sink under the 
trial ; but I will not complain. 

Adieu ! If I had any thing more 
to say to you, it is all flown, and 
absorbed by the most tormenting 
apprehensions ; yet I scarcely know 
what new form of misery I have to 
dread. 

I ought to beg your pardon for 
having sometimes written peevishly ; 
but you will impute it to affection, 
if you understand anything of the 
heart of 

Yours truly 

Mary. 

LETTER LXIII 

[To?isberg] August 9 [1795]. 

Five of your letters have been 

sent after me from . One, dated 

the 14th of July, was A^Titten in a 
style which I may have merited, but 
did not expect from you. However 



TO IMLAY 143 

this is not a time to reply to it, ex- 
cept to assure you that you shall not 
be tormented with any more com- 
plaints. I am disgusted with myself 
for having so long importuned you 

with my affection. 

My child is very well. We shall 
soon meet, to part no more, I hope 
— I mean, I and my girl. — I shall 
wait with some degree of anxiety till 
I am informed how your affairs 
terminate. 

Yours sincerely 

Mary. 

LETTER LXIV 

[Gothenburg] August 26 [1795]. 

I ARRIVED here last night, and 
with the most exquisite delight, once 
more pressed my babe to my heart. 
We shall part no more. You per- 
haps cannot conceive the pleasure it 
gave me, to see her run about, and 
play alone. Her increasing intelli- 
gence attaches me more and more 



144 LETTERS 

to her. I have promised her that I 
will fulfil my duty to her; and 
nothing in future shall make me 
forget it. I will also exert myself 
to obtain an independence for her ; 
but I will not be too anxious on this 
head. 

I have already told you, that I 
have recovered my health. Vigour,, 
and even vivacity of mind, have re- 
turned with a renovated constitution. 
As for peace, we will not talk of it. 
I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy 
the calm contentment so termed. — 

* * # * 

You tell me that my letters torture 
you ; I will not describe the effect 
yours have on me. I received three 
this morning, the last dated the 7th 
of this month. I mean not to give 
vent to the emotions they produced. 
— Certainly you are right ; our minds 
are not congenial. I have lived in 
an ideal world, and fostered senti- 
ments that you do not comprehend 



TO IMLAY 145 

— or you would not treat me thus. 
I am not, I will not be, merely an 
object of compassion — a clog, how- 
ever light, to teize you. Forget that 
I exist: I will never remind you. 
Something emphatical whispers me 
to put an end to these struggles. 
Be free — 1 will not torment, when I 
caimot please. I can take care of 
my child ; you need not continually 
tell me that our fortune is insepar- 
able, that you will try to cJierish 
tenderness for me. Do no violence 
to yourself ! When we are separated, 
our interest, since you give so much 
weight to pecuniary considerations, 
will be entirely divided. I want not 
protection without aiFection ; and 
support I need not, whilst my 
faculties are undisturbed. I had a 
dislike to living in England ; but 
painful feelings must give way to 
superior considerations. I may not 
be able to acquire the sum necessary 
to maintain my child and self else- 
where. It is too late to go to 

10 



146 LETTERS 

Switzerland. I shall not remain at 

, living expensively. But be 

not alarmed ! I shall not force my- 
self on you any more. 

Adieu ! I am agitated — my whole 
frame is convulsed — my lips tremble, 
as if shook by cold, though fire seems 
to be circulating in my veins. 

God bless you. 

Maky. 

LETTER LXV 

[Copenhageri\ September 6 [1795]. 

I RECEIVED just now your letter of 
the 20th. I had written you a letter 
last night, into which imperceptibly 
slipt some of my bitterness of soul. 
I w^ill copy the part relative to busi- 
ness. I am not sufficiently vain to 
imagine that I can, for more than a 
moment, cloud your enjoyment of 
life — to prevent even that, you had 
better never hear from me — and 
repose on the idea that I am happy. 

Gracious God ! It is impossible 



TO IMLAY 147 

for me to stifle something like resent- 
ment, when I receive fresh proofs 
of your indifference. What I have 
suffered this last year, is not to be 
forgotten ! I have not that happy 
substitute for wisdom, insensibility — 
and the lively sympathies which bind 
me to my fellow-creatures, are all of 
a painful kind. — They are the agonies 
of a broken heart — pleasure and I 
have shaken hands. 

I see here nothing but heaps of 
ruins, and only converse with people 
immersed in trade and sensuality. 

I am weary of travelling — yet seem 
to have no home — no resting-place 
to look to. — I am strangely cast off. 
— How often, passing through the 
rocks, I have thought, " But for this 
child, I would lay my head on one 
of them, and never open my eyes 
again ! " With a heart feelingly alive 
to all the affections of my nature— I 
have never met with one, softer than 
the stone that I would fain take for 
my last pillow. I once thought I 



148 LETTERS 

had, but it was all a delusion. I 
meet with families continually, who 
are bound together by affection or 
principle — and, when I am conscious 
that I have fulfilled the duties of my 
station, almost to a forgetfulness of 
myself, I am ready to demand, in a 
murmuring tone, of Heaven, " Why 
am I thus abandoned ? " 
You say now 

* * * * 

I do not understand you. It is 
necessary for you to write more ex- 
plicitly — and determine on some 
mode of conduct. — I cannot endure 
this suspense — Decide — Do you fear 
to strike another blow ? We live 
together, or eternally part ! — I shall 
not write to you again, till I receive 
an answer to this. I must compose 
my tortured soul, before I write on 
indifferent subjects. 

* * * * 

I do not know whether I write 



TO IMLAY 149 

intelligibly, for my head is disturbed. 
But this you ought to pardon — for it is 
with difficulty frequently that I make 
out what you mean to say — You 
write, I suppose, at Mr. — — 's after 
dinner, when your head is not the 
clearest — and as for your heart, if 
you have one, I see nothing like the 
dictates of affection, unless a glimpse 
when you mention the child — Adieu ! 

LETTER LXVI 

[Hamburg] September 25 [1795]. 

I HAVE just finished a letter, to be 
given in charge to captain 



In that I complained of your silence, 
and expressed my surprise that three 
mails should have arrived without 
bringing a line for me. Since I 
closed it, I hear of another, and still 
no letter. — I am labouring to write 
calmly — this silence is a refinement 
on cruelty. Had captain — — re- 
mained a few days longer, I would 
have returned with him to England. 



150 LETTERS 

What have I to do here ? I have 
repeatedly written to you fully. Do 
you do the same — and quickly. Do 
not leave me in suspense. I have 
not deserved this of you. I cannot 
write, my mind is so distressed. 
Adieu ! 

Mary. 

LETTER LXVII 

[Hambicrg] September 27 [1795]. 

When you receive this, 1 shall 
either have landed, or be hovering on 
the British coast — your letter of the 
18th decided me. 

By what criterion of principle or 
affection, you term my questions 
extraordinary and unnecessary, I can- 
not determine. — You desire me to 
decide — I had decided. You must 
have had long ago two letters of mine, 

from , to the same purport, to 

consider* — In these, God knows! there 
was but too much affection, and the 
agonies of a distracted mind were 



TO IMLAY 151 

but too faithfully pourtrayed ! — What 
more then had I to say ?— The nega- 
tive was to come from you. — You had 
perpetually recurred to your promise 
of meeting me in the autumn — Was 
it extraordinary that I should demand 
a yes, or no ? — Your letter is written 
with extreme harshness, coldness I 
an accustomed to, in it I find not a 
trace of the tenderness of humanity, 
much less of friendship. — I only see 
a desire to heave a load off your 
shoulders. 

I am above disputing about words. 
— It matters not in what terms you 
decide. 

The tremendous power who formed 
this heart, must have foreseen that, 
in a world in which self-interest, in 
various shapes, is the principal mobile, 
I had little chance of escaping misery. 
— To the fiat of fate I submit. — I am 
content to be wretched; but I will 
not be contemptible. — Of me you 
have no cause to complain, but for 
having had too much regard for you 



152 LETTERS 

—for having expected a degree of 
permanent happiness, when you only 
sought for a momentary gratification. 

I am strangely deficient in sagacity. 
— Uniting myself to you, your tender- 
ness seemed to make me amends for 
all my former misfortunes. — On this 
tenderness and affection with what 
confidence did I rest ! — but I leaned 
on a spear, that has pierced me to the 
heart. — You have thrown off a faith- 
ful friend, to pursue the caprices of the 
moment. — We certainly are differently 
organized ; for even now, when con- 
viction has been stamped on my soul 
hj sorrow, I can scarcely believe it 
possible. It depends at present on 
you, whether you will see me or not. 
— I shall take no step, till I see or 
hear from you. 

Preparing myself for the worst — I 
have determined, if your next letter 

be like the last, to write to Mr. 

to procure me an obscure lodging, 
and not to inform any body of my 
arrival. — There I will endeavour in 



TO IMLAY 153 

a few months to obtain the sum 
necessary to take me to France — 
from you I will not receive any more. 
— I am not yet sufficiently humbled 
to depend on your beneficence. 

Some people, whom my unhappi- 
ness has interested, though they 
know not the extent of it, will assist 
me to attain the object I have in 
view, the independence of my child. 
Should a peace take place, ready 
money will go a great way in France 
— and I will borrow a sum, which my 
industry shall enable me to pay at my 
leisure, to purchase a small estate for 
my girl. — The assistance I shall find 
necessary to complete her education, 
I can get at an easy rate at Paris — 
I can introduce her to such society 
as she will like — and thus, securing 
for her all the chance for happiness, 
which depends on me, I shall die in 
peace, persuaded that the felicity 
which has hitherto cheated my 
expectation, will not always elude 
my grasp. No poor temptest-tossed 



154 LETTERS 

mariner ever more earnestly longed 
to arrive at his port. 

Mary. 

I shall not come up in the vessel 
all the way, because I have no place 

to go to. Captain will inform 

you where I am. It is needless to 
add, that I am not in a state of 
mind to bear suspense — and that I 
w^ish to see you, though it be for the 
last time. 



LETTER LXVIII 

[Dover] Su7iday^ October 4 [1795], 

1 WROTE to you by the packet, to 
inform you, that your letter of the 
18th of last month, had determined 

me to set out with captain ; 

but, as we sailed very quick, I take 
it for granted, that you have not 
yet received it. 

You say, I must decide for myself. 
— 1 had decided, that it was most 
for the interest of my little girl, and 



TO IMLAY 155 

for my own comfort, little as I expect, 
for us to live together ; and I even 
thought that you would be glad, 
some years hence, when the tumult 
of business was over, to repose in the 
society of an affectionate friend, and 
mark the progress of our interesting 
child, whilst endeavouring to be of 
use in the circle you at last resolved 
to rest in : for you cannot run about 
for ever. 

From the tenour of your last letter 
however, I am led to imagine, that 
you have formed some new attach- 
ment. — If it be so, let me earnestly 
request you to see me once more, 
and immediately. This is the only 
proof I require of the friendship you 
profess for me. I will then decide, 
since you boggle about a mere form. 

I am labouring to write with calm- 
ness — but the extreme anguish I feel, 
at landing without having any friend 
to receive me, and even to be con- 
scious that the friend whom I most 
wish to see, will feel a disagreeable 



156 LETTERS 

sensation at being informed of my 
arrival, does not come under the de- 
scription of common misery. Every 
emotion yields to an overwhelming 
flood of sorrow — and the playfulness 
of my child distresses me. — On her 
account, I wished to remain a few 
days here, comfortless as is my situa- 
tion. — Besides, I did not wish to sur- 
prise you. You have told me, that 
you would make any sacrifice to 
promote my happiness — and, even in 
your last unkind letter, you talk of 
the ties which bind you to me and 
my child. — Tell me, that you wish 
it, and I will cut this Gordian 
knot. 

I now most earnestly intreat you 
to write to me, without fail, by the 
return of the post. Direct your letter 
to be left at the post-office, and tell 
me whether you will come to me 
here, or where you will meet me. I 
can receive your letter on Wednesday 
morning. 

Do not keep me in suspense. — I 



TO IMLAY 157 

expect nothing from you, or any- 
human being : my die is cast !— I 
have fortitude enough to determine 
to do my duty ; yet I cannot raise 
my depressed spirits, or calm my 
trembUng heart. — That being who 
moulded it thus, knows that I am 
unable to tear up by the roots the 
propensity to aftection which has 
been the torment of my life — but 
life will have an end ! 

Should you come here (a few 
months ago I could not have doubted 

it) you will find me at . If 

you prefer meeting me on the road, 
tell me where. 

Yours affectionately, 

Mary. 

LETTER LXIX 

[London, Nov. 1795]. 
I WRITE to you now on my knees ; 
imploring you to send my child and 

the maid with , to Paris, to be 

consigned to the care of Madame 
-, rue , section de -. 



158 LETTERS 

Should they be removed, can 

give their direction. 

Let the maid have all my clothes, 
without distinction. 

Pray pay the cook her wages, and 
do not mention the confession which 
I forced from her — a little sooner or 
later is of no consequence. Nothing 
but my extreme stupidity could have 
rendered me blind so long. Yet, 
whilst you assured me that you had 
no attachment, I thought we might 
still have lived together. 

I shall make no comments on your 
conduct ; or any appeal to the world. 
Let my wrongs sleep with me ! 
Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. 
When you receive this, my burning 
head will be cold. 

1 would encounter a thousand 
deaths, rather than a night like the 
last. Your treatment has thrown 
my mind into a state of chaos ; yet 
I am serene. I go to find comfort, 
and my only fear is, that my poor 
body will be insulted by an endeavour 



TO IMLAY 159 

to recal my hated existence. But I 
shall plunge into the Thames where 
there is the least chance of my being 
snatched from the death I seek. 

God bless you ! May you never 
know by experience what you have 
made me endure. Should your sen- 
sibility ever awake, remorse will find 
its way to your heart ; and, in the 
midst of business and sensual pleasure, 
I shall appear before you, the victim 
of your deviation from rectitude. 

Mary. 

LETTER LXX 

[London, Nov. 1795] Sunday/ Morning, 

I HAVE only to lament, that, when 
the bitterness of death was past, I 
was inhumanly brought back to life 
and misery. But a fixed determina- 
tion is not to be baffled by disap- 
pointment ; nor will I allow that to 
be a frantic attempt, which was one 
of the calmest acts of reason. In 
this respect, I am only accountable 



160 LETTERS 

to myself. Did I care for what is 
termed reputation, it is by other 
circumstances that I should be dis- 
honoured. 

You say, " that you know not how 
to extricate ourselves out of the 
wretchedness into which we have 
been plunged." You are extricated 
long since. — But I forbear to com- 
ment. — If I am condemned to live 
longer, it is a living death. 

It appears to me, that you lay 
much more stress on delicacy, than 
on principle ; for I am unable to 
discover what sentiment of delicacy 
would have been violated, by your 
visiting a wretched friend — if indeed 
you have any friendship for me. — 
But since your new attachment is 
the only thing sacred in your eyes, I 
am silent — Be happy ! My com- 
plaints shall never more damp your 
enjoyment — perhaps I am mistaken 
in supposing that even my death 
could, for more than a moment. — 
This is what you call magnanimity. — 



TO IMLAY 161 

It is happy for yourself, that you 
possess this quahty in the highest 
degree. 

Your continually asserting, that 
you will do all in your power to 
contribute to my comfprt (when you 
only allude to pecuniary assistance), 
appears to me a flagrant breach of 
delicacy. — ^I want not such vulgar 
comfort, nor will I accept it. I 
never wanted but your heart — That 
gone, you have nothing more to 
give. Plad 1 only poverty to fear, I 
should not shrink from life.— For- 
give me then, if I say, that I shall 
consider any direct or indirect at- 
tempt to supply my necessities, as an 
insult which I have not merited — ■ 
and as rather done out of tenderness 
for your own reputation, than for 
me. Do not mistake me ; I do not 
think that you value money (there- 
fore I will not accept what you do 
not care for) though I do much less, 
because certain privations are not 
painful to me. When I am dead, 

11 



162 LETTERS 

respect for yourself will make you 
take care of the child. 

I write with difficulty— probably I 
shall never write to you again. — 
Adieu ! 

God bless you ! 

Mary. 

LETTER LXXI 

[Lo7idon, Nov. 1795] Monday Morning. 

I AM compelled at last to say that 
you treat me ungenerously. I agree 
with you, that 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

But let the obliquity now fall on 
me. — I fear neither poverty nor in- 
famy. I am unequal to the task of 
writing — and explanations are not 
necessary. 

* * 4*t * * 

My child may have to blush for her 
mother's want of prudence — and may 
lament that the rectitude of my 
heart made me above vulgar precau^ 



I 



TO IMLAY 163 

tions ; but she shall not despise me 
for meanness. — You are now per- 
fectly free. — God bless you. 

Mary. 

LETTER LXXII 

[London, Nov. 1795] Saturday Night. 

I HAVE been hurt by indirect en- 
quiries, which appear to me not to 
be dictated by any tenderness to 
me. — You ask " If I am well or 
tranquil ? " — They who think me so, 
must want a heart to estimate my 
feelings by. — I chuse then to be the 
organ of my own sentiments. 

I must tell you, that I am very 
much mortified by your continually 
offering me pecuniary assistance— 
and, considering your going to the 
new house, as an open avowal that 
you abandon me, let me tell you 
that I will sooner perish than receive 
any thing from you — and I say this 
at the moment when I am disap- 
pointed in my first attempt to obtain 



164 LETTERS 

a temporary supply. But this even 
pleases me ; an accumulation of dis- 
appointments and misfortunes seems 
to suit the habit of my mind. — 

Have but a little patience, and I 
will remove myself where it will not 
be necessary for you to talk — of 
course, not to think of me. But let 
me see, written by yourself — for I 
will not receive it through any other 
medium — that the affair is finished. 
— It is an insult to me to suppose, 
that I can be reconciled, or recover 
my spirits ; but, if you hear nothing of 
me, it will be the same thing to you. 

Mary. 

Even your seeing me, has been to 
oblige other people, and not to sooth 
my distracted mind. 

LETTER LXXIII 

[London, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afteinoon. 

Mr. having forgot to desire 

you to send the things of mine which 



1 



TO IMLAY 165 

were left at the house, I have to 

request you to let bring them 

to 

I shall go this evening to the 
lodging ; so you need not be re- 
strained from coming here to transact 
your business. — And, whatever I may 
think, and feel — you need not fear 
that I shall publicly complain— No ! 
If I have any criterion to judge of 
right and wrong, I have been most 
ungenerously treated : but, wishing 
now only to hide myself, I shall be 
silent as the grave in which I long 
to forget myself. I shall protect and 
provide for my child. — I only mean 
by this to say, that you have 
nothing to fear from my desperation. 

F arewel. 

Mary. 

LETTER LXXIV 

London, November 27 [1795]. 

The letter, without an address, 
which you put up with the letters 



166 LETTERS 

you returned, did not meet my eyes 
till just now. — I had thrown the 
letters aside — I did not wish to look 
over a register of sorrow. 

My not having seen it, will account 
for my having written to you with 
anger — under the impression your 
departure, without even a line left 
for me, made on me, even after your 
late conduct, which could not lead 
me to expect much attention to my 
sufferings. 

In fact, " the decided conduct, 
which appeared to me so unfeeling," 
has almost overturned my reason ; 
my mind is injured — I scarcely know 
where I am, or what I do. — The 
grief I cannot conquer (for some 
cruel recollections never quit me, 
banishing almost every other) I labour 
to conceal in total solitude. — My life 
therefore is but an exercise of forti- 
tude, continually on the stretch — 
and hope never gleams in this tomb, 
where I am buried alive. 

But I meant to reason with you. 



TO IMLAY 167 

and not to complain. — You tell me, 
that I shall judge more coolly of 
your mode of acting, some time 
hence." But is it not possible that 
passion clouds your reason, as much 
as it does mine ? — and ought you not 
to doubt, whether those principles 
are so " exalted," as you term them, 
which only lead to your own gratifi- 
cation ? In other words, whether 
it be just to have no principle of 
action, but that of following your 
inclination, trampling on the affection 
you have fostered, and the expecta- 
tions you have excited ? 

My affection for you is rooted in 
my heart. — I know you are not what 
you now seem — nor will you always 
act, or feel, as you now do, though 
I may never be comforted by the 
change. — Even at Paris, my image 
will haunt you. — You will see my 
pale face — and sometimes the tears 
of anguish will drop on your heart,^ 
which you have forced from mine. 

I cannot write. I thought I could 



^68 LETTERS 

quickly have refuted all your in- 
genious arguments ; but my head 
is confused. — Right or wrong, I am 
miserable ! 

It seems to me, that my conduct 
has always been governed by the 
strictest principles of justice and 
truth. — Yet, how wretched have my 
social feelings, and delicacy of senti- 
ment rendered me ! — I have loved 
with my whole soul, only to discover 
that I had no chance of a return — 
and that existence is a burthen with- 
out it. 

I do not perfectly understand you. 
—If, by the offer of your friendship, 
you still only mean pecuniary sup- 
port — I must again reject it. — Trifling 
are the ills of poverty in the scale of 
my misfortunes. — God bless you ! 

Mary. 

I have been treated ungenerously 
• — if I understand what is generosity. 
— You seem to me only to have been 
anxious to shake me off — regardless 



TO IMLAY 169 

whether you dashed me to atoms by 
the fall. — In truth I have been rudely 
handled. JDo you judge coolly^ and 
I trust you will not continue to call 
those capricious feelings "the most 
refined," which would undermine not 
only the most sacred principles, but 
the affections which unite mankind. 
— You would render mothers un- 
natural — and there would be no such 
thing as a father ! — If your theory 
of morals is the most " exalted," it 
is certainly the most easy. — It does 
not require much magnanimity, to 
determine to please ourselves for the 
moment, let others suffer what they 
will! 

Excuse me for again tormenting 
you, my heart thirsts for justice 
from you — and whilst I recollect that 

you approved Miss -'s conduct 

- — I am convinced you will not always 
justify your own. 

Beware of the deceptions of passion ! 
It will not always banish from your 
mind, that you have acted ignobly — 



170 LETTERS 

and condescended to subterfuge to 
gloss over the conduct you could not 
excuse. — Do truth and principle re- 
quire such sacrifices ? 

LETTER LXXV 

London^ December 8 [1795], 

Having just been informed that 
is to return immediately to 



Paris, I would not miss a sure oppor- 
tunity of writing, because I am not 
certain that my last, by Dover has 
reached you. 

Resentment, and even anger, are 
momentary emotions with me — and 
I wished to tell you so, that if you 
ever think of me, it may not be in 
the light of an enemy. 

That I have not been used well I 
must ever feel ; perhaps, not always 
with the keen anguish I do at present 
— for I began even now^ to write 
calmly, and I cannot restrain my 
tears. 

I am stunned ! — Your late conduct 



TO IMLAY 171 

still appears to me a frightful dream. 
— Ah ! ask yourself if you have 
not condescended to employ a little 
address, I could almost say cunning, 
unworthy of you ? — Principles are 
sacred things — and we never play 
with truth, with impunity. 

The expectation (I have too fondly 
nourished it) of regaining your affec- 
tion, every day grows fainter and 
fainter. — Indeed, it seems to me, 
when I am more sad than usual, that 
I shall never see you more. — Yet 
you will not always forget me.— 
You will feel something like remorse, 
for having lived only for yourself — 
and sacrificed my peace to inferior 
gratifications. In a comfortless old 
age, you will remember that you had 
one disinterested friend, whose heart 
you wounded to the quick. The 
hour of recollection will come — and 
you will not be satisfied to act the 
part of a boy, till you fall into that 
of a dotard. I know that your mind, 
your heart, and your principles of 



172 LETTERS 

action, are all superior to your 
present conduct. You do, you must, 
respect me — and you will be sorry 
to forfeit my esteem. 

You know best whether I am still 
preserving the remembrance of an 
imaginary being. — I once thought 
that I knew you thoroughly — but 
now I am obliged to leave some 
doubts that involuntarily press on 
me, to be cleared up by time. 

You may render me unhappy ; but 
cannot make me contemptible in my 
own eyes. — I shall still be able to 
support my child, though I am dis- 
appointed in some other plans of use- 
fulness, which I once believed would 
have afforded you equal pleasure. 

Whilst I was with you, 1 restrained 
my natural generosity, because I 
thought your property in jeopardy. — 
When I went to [Sweden], I requested 
you, if you could conveniently, not 
to forget my father, sisters, and some 
other people, whom I was interested 
about. — Money was lavished away. 



TO IMLAY 173 

yet not only my requests were neg- 
lected, but some trifling debts were 
not discharged, that now come on 
me. — Was this friendship — or gener- 
osity ? Will you not grant you have 
forgotten yourself? Still I have an 
affection for you. — God bless you. 

Mary. 

LETTER LXXVI 

[London, Dec. 1795.] 

As the parting from you for ever 
is the most serious event of my life, 
I will once expostulate with you, and 
call not the language of truth and 
feeling ingenuity ! 

I know the soundness of your under- 
standing — and know that it is im- 
possible for you always to confound 
the caprices of every wayward in- 
clination with the manly dictates of 
principle. 

You tell me " that I torment you." 
— Why do I ?- Because you can- 
Hot estrange your heart entirely from 



174 LETTERS 

me — and you feel that justice is on 
my side. You urge, " that your con- 
duct was unequivocal." — It was not. 
—When your coolness has hurt me, 
with what tenderness have you en- 
deavoured to remove the impression ! 
— and even before I returned to 
England, you took great pains to 
convince me, that all my uneasiness 
was occasioned by the effect of a 
worn-out constitution — and you con- 
cluded your letter with these words, 
" Business alone has kept me from 
you. — Come to any port, and I will 
fly down to my two dear girls with 
a heart all their own." 

With these assurances, is it extra- 
ordinary that I should believe what 
I wished? I might — and did think 
that you had a struggle with old pro- 
pensities ; but I still thought that I 
and virtue should at last prevail. I 
still thought that you had a mag- 
nanimity of character, which would 
enable you to conquer yourself. 

Imlay, believe me, it is not 



TO IMLAY 177 

The sentiment in me is still sacred. 
If there be any part of me that will 
survive the sense of my misfortunes, 
it is the purity of my affections. The 
impetuosity of your senses, may have 
led you to term mere animal desire, 
the source of principle ; and it may 
give zest to some years to come. — 
Whether you will always think so, 
I shall never know. 

It is strange that, in spite of all 
you do, something like conviction 
forces me to believe, that you are not 
what you appear to be. 

I part with you in peace. 



Printed by Hazell, Watson &• Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. 

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